But

(because i wanted to say something, but can't center enough, so borrowing from the other day when i could: this will do for now)

You have?
Sure, hasn't everyone?
Well. Confused. I don't know.
I didn't think so.
I don't know you. Not that
well.
How can I believe you?
You look like a pothead.
Whatever that means.
Aparently everyone has their
secrets.
My eyes are generally red.
What does that mean?
Especially in a world where
God is dead.
Whatever that means.
"With greater power
comes greater responsibility."
Age is power, supposedly.
I don't have to eat the spinach now --
not if I don't want to.
Limp. Soft.
It will not go inside me.
I can choose this time.
Supposedly.
An old man sits,
soft and limp.
Not one, but two,
strong young men stand.
Circling him, surrounding him.
Hovering. Heckling.
Leave him alone!
Two shout, as we drive by.
Too afraid to stop.
Or careless. Maybe carefree.
He's not our old man.
He doesn't belong to me.
I have other problems,
on this side of my white-picket
balcony.
I'm suppsed to write this book,
a precious look.
All I can think is:
What the fuck does it all mean?

for kins. and then for jesse. and then for dot dot dot

you are supposed to be here. how do i know? because doblets of water are dripping off the leaves of the trees outside. they are red and yellow and green -- not quite ready to dance down. not quite autumn yet. my balcony is soggy because the rain gutter is overflowing. the lights flickered off and on again. you usually bring the rain, but this time? you're not here. so who brought it in their pocket?

and then you, jesse. muni came out when you popped in. now she's hiding again. and i'm laughing because if she is my deamon, what does that say? and if you haven't read the books yet, will you even get the reference?

last night i knew it was time to finally go to bed when i dropped all the tortillas on the ground.

distracted. again.

focusing enough to know i'm distracted.

strange when coughing tastes like something, though you don't know what. and you haven't eaten anything in awhile, so it can't be residual flavor. is that what my insides taste like? not like acid -- that's different. this is earthy and dry. this is the seasoning of my flesh.

and the sound of time ticks on.

to be sick is not a wonderful thing. it is a wonderful excuse to sit around in your pajamas all day, though.

focusing.

nevermind.