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<=140 Characters in July

Desire, Desire for intimate contact, Neither asked for, Nor given, Intimate contact recieved, Because it is given, Not very Buddhist.

Fine words, these short stories, from my current favorite, Miranda July, shades of Raymond Carver, tickle the mind, with the written word.

In the midst of sunny summer mornings, we encounter a gray morning, low clouds shielding us, from over exposure, we who live here.

Quiet, So rare, I can hear the clock tick, Ever present in this room, Almost never heard, By conscious minds.

Over tired, I close the day, little happened, of those things I would be doing, in favor of many things, which ought be done.

Over tired, I wander about my morning, from slow response, to short doze, ever onward, toward the door, and another day, at work.

Major purge in progress, the first since we married and moved, basement walls visible, space navigable, first times a charm.

Long silence, can I whack you with a noisy stick? Or should I shut you up, and thereby free the voices you conceal?

Government, representatives, candidates, betray us all, except for moneyed interests. Corruption we do not even recognize you.

Wonderful morning, full of sunshine, I gaze upon the wealth of veggies, and grow hungery, breakfast awaits.

Relaxed after relaxing day, walk to iceburg point, wander ‘bout the island, dinner eaten with feet in the sand of the bay, I sit and relax.

A day on the water, she, for love of me, feels the swell of a long reach, the wind, tide and current.