on the 8:07-in-the-morning list,
I question the possibility of the day;
so much promise but ultimately
will end in evening defeat
and/or alcoholic unproductivity.
that's a werd, isn't it?
oh who cares.
I got good music and baskets,
darkness and spinach,
all on top of blocked blogs and recent blondie memories.
if you read this,
you know who you are, meta.
if not, then none of this matters,
so I make my hands cold
and drink bruises.
gathering what is left,
swallowing time, choking on tiny minutes,
itchy from moments and a soul that isn't yet black,
I always wanted to be a better man,
just so I could stand.
everything and everyone I know,
maybe maybe, move move,
because yawning dawns are nice to me,
I have to be polite
and get buried.