I get tired of all the contracts and dots. I think about babies named Olive and puppies named Charles. I wash dishes for hours and try to make sense of things. I see myself as possibly more tired then I actually am. I press on my happy trail and drool on my cheeks.
I pour myself something and pride myself on the copy of Howl I keep on the window sill along with the Yoko instructions and sea salt. I dream of san fran and contemplate Zola.
I don't remember all the things I have to do, but assure myself that I'm doing most of them to the best of my FAS. I erase a lot. The floor is charcoal. I panic already. About everything. I cling to his leather coat and worry that he's cold. I try not to step on dead cats on the way to the bus at 3am in the fucking 3am.
I wash my feet in jelly fish puss cause Jesus patented the hole water thing. My left arm is considerably larger then the right from lifting gallons of milk.
But, the smell of the evergreen candle and the taste of ginger makes me easy and smoked, a Reuben on the streets of France at a writers retreat for Christian liberal women with adopted children and surviving cats.
Thank you for your pity, it feels later then it is, flip the pod and disregard,
Skin and Toast