strikes

made my strikes

I went bowling over the weekend and made my strikes… we had nothing left to spare. I dropped some van halen on the ears and a ten pound marble on wax floors, and that puppy found its way to the void and disappeared, taking a whole lotta sticks with it to the hereafter. My form wasn’t very good and gosh, I didn’t care about the arrows or the baseball game or the scorecard on the screen next to it. All I cared about was turning around to look you in the eyes and know you loved me.

bowling at the Inferno

The geometry of the room calmed me until i saw the centrifuge which caused me to eat the entire seedless watermelon. The bitter rind, typically dyssed, soothed my soul. My body double, once released, was able to free itself and form its own identity. Which pleased me, her initiative. The brazenness. No one has a body double quite like mine. The trick she used was separating sandwiches we made for the party, from their crusts. Tomorrow arrived with a name sewn to a shirt pocket, in North Dakota, and my old friend (now) Dante, was entrusted to play under the hoods of late model cars. I saw myself in her, by the choice of her name. It was our birthday today. We went bowling in the Inferno. In separate states. They made it easy into a chain. All the balls were round.