Wearing the antique guile hat
Jeremy James Thompson

          The roof we had built with my father was built of oven doors. He lined them promptly as if to patch a hole. He was my brother. I was his sister and so I cut my hair. Brother's father was much like mine with hands to wave a brick at teeth to crack a safe. Neither could say what had become. So forth right was their exit that he and I drew near but thought against what might and often happened. Chance had it. We knelt in one in the same chapel our knees without intention lips pursed pursued by giants. My imagination grew angry. Even our roof fell below the fury hot as iron baked the feathers off the geese. Left a feast in the rain. Sure enough the table was set again and again until when. And then without the luxury without the dawn a cock busted through the pantry which was the kitchen which jerry rigged for a mattress and a coat rack. I remember potatoes and what the dew doesn't touch. All internal some edible and those without an appetite. All internal some edible and those without and appetite. All internal some edible and those with out an alibi. I will not speak out of turn. I will not speak out of turn. I willn't ought not peek through the ferns. I willingly saw thought mislearn.

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