surdfishliterally don't @ me
sometimes i say things
sometimes things say me
we're going to be
ok but first
oj
clerptooting on main again
bcuzza mister cuzmaxxing's
grecian 'substitutes' lmaop
it takes a pillage
to rase a village
in so far as evolution be the buttstuffed bitch of empire, what we really say when we really say so/insofar become this box of eyecandies your et ceteras keep you/from burying the same friend twice (in, IN) a day at the beach so far entail its own headlong negation of the picnic as in (IN!) beggar our rehearsal of the old Grecian formula we’d slather on a good twenty minutes before plunging back into the deity’s sore brow impervious every time we begin this sentence all/over again in, so
odd man out at
the sixty-nine party
guess i'll deejay
a shared experience mom says you may
cut and i may choose which part is mine
circumscribe the undone chore wheel reveal via hidden camera zooms as it pulls us slowly back to their unseemly pairing in a lost pilot comprised of clips of other serials killed in focus group to the attenuating circumstance of their ride-or-die paradox in the echoes of the detective's catch phrase 🧵
I miss the salamanders of Nova Scotia is a thing I never imagined saying but here I am decades into another province dredging distant moments of wild blueberries, rust-coloured mosses swirling on the rocks in the clear brook I crossed to go to school, green mosses on the forest floor, white pines knit so tight you'd lose yourself in ten paces, losing myself, the bees and their goldenrod, the wild blueberries, the two-dollar bill we found on the road and blew on a trove of candy, Pa teaching me to swim, riding bikes for the sake of it, riding bikes to the fire hall to see old films, more summer than winter, croup at Christmas exploding a lie, Dungeons & Dragons making a game of it, sliding on ice, falling through ice, eating with the seasons, digging for clams, swimming neither against nor with the current, nearly drowning, never drowning, becoming water, running from bullies, running from girls, chasing girls, wild blueberries, AM radio in Pa's orange Austin, the odour of creosote along the harbour front, the bottle under his seat, my utter adoration, his love, his example, above everything, he taught me to swim, wild blueberries, the ocean's ubiquity, you won’t forget, the ocean.
Sans peer, the 1989 Volvo 240 DL sedan is the ideal whip for winters in Alberta. The classic Brick's modest, low-power/high-torque, electronic fuel injected, single overhead cam, 2.3 litre, 4-cylinder engine, shackled to a zesty 5-speed manual transmission and stout rear-wheel drive is indefatigable under the harshest conditions. Loaded with aggressive snow tires, a full tank of gas, and a trunk packed with firewood, the Volvo 240 will burn for days in a ditch on the side of the highway even at minus 30 degrees.