I ate some Chinese ribs today. Got a hive on my right eyebrow from a dinner party misfortune.
Inhaled chalk dust and blew more onto my carpet. I am molting.
There are times to pass on the novelty.
Excrete the fortune teller blood and the sexiest poses from a vocabulary.
To listen to radiohead and not feel sadness.
To look at a frog price so fair and green and silent
and know he is real.
I wonder if what was said is true sometimes.
That she is taller than those arms of everyone.
I know what he wants to say, but those words make empty feelings inside.
The repetitive, love, the love, love...
Reminds me of vacancy. Of poetry, of drawing to fill needs.
Honesty is felt. It reeks. It's permeable and palpable.
There is trust in these bones.
The molt removes the doubt. It grows the roots.
A diatribe. It shouldn't feel like that.
I can sense it.