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i dropped my copy of an indoor kind of girl in the slush
not because i intended to
the books are getting smaller
employing efficient economy
word counts dropping (more)
i had tangibility to offer but no intangibles to give.
i walked a mountain side alone for three weeks straight. it was all i could take. my year of the self fell short to selfish insecurity.

the comfort of warm bath water and black reflective surfaces were enough to turn my back to the mountain. i crawled bac(more)
I'm writing to the trash bin
Where you'll never look twice
But I'll revisit.

I'll make it a dwelling-
A place to stew and burst
one whole year with holes in it

one whole year of you
off on and on off
on paper, my terms
off script, your terms (more)
There is a bubbling in the glass
And it’ll ooze through you
coursing like a term spread
over the horizon of the night
twisting the blood
turning the DNA (more)
for a long while, i thought the prince edward viaduct had streams of water pouring out of the top and through the bottom on the north and south sidewalks. i tried to tell you about the streams but you were smoking out the window and spitting out the window(more)
"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."

he's yelling at me on the phone and i'm placing the phone on the garbage can lid. it's one of those teeter totter lids that gets stuck on bundles of used tissue.
"There is a certain slant of light."

It's about time to drive yourself crazy. Book a flight to Spain to have human trafficking haunt you. Take a job at a bookstore to put more knots in your back. Pick up English courses to put more notches in your(more)
I shall never get you put together entirely.

The messages are inconsistent. But I have viewed them all. And I know.

I think of you when I hear The Growlers. And all the authors.

d.h. lawrence went to mexico. that's more than i know of you. They Spoke In Capitals In Mexico.

henry miller went to marousi. that's somewhere far from you. he didn't say much but he listened.
sunned in for a short speckle 'til its gone again to someone else's window. yellow flowers push against ceiling, roof and sky in exchange for just a flicker of that warm sunlight.

but no room left there (more)
the man in
broken glass -
his black tar soul.

crawling off (more)
Amelia pushed gray-red curls off the delicate piece of paper before her - the type they use in bibles - and, in her delicate hand, hand wrote a short list of items. She handed it to me.

"Here it is." (more)
"Are ya'as innocent as ya look?"

"How innocent do I look?" I reach over the counter and grab a shooter glass. I fill it 'ith pilsner and toss it at my face. One chug.