(no subject)
You know I always exit the left door of a place when I'm angry. Swinging slides and soda cans. Flavored ice on a yellow plastic picnic table. In five short breaths my topics shift away. Its a thing I have. I don't really know who you are but you always seem to be there. I talk to you as I write. I'm writing to you. A mysterious blend of strangers and friends. There's not a trace of myself in any of it. For a decade I got shot in the face with books and now I'm still taking pills. I close my eyes when I write
I am the last one alive in a lifeboat full of gelatin.