there is always a you in the you I talk about
spurts of months ago
acid wash
the act of being worn out
I dreamt I was to do the charleston in an auditorium of people but my dress was too long, and or I also was wearing pants beneath it (the long thin breaths in a bed beside me in real life) so I called, tiny voiced, Wait, and of course I'm dreaming of all of my bags and luggages, filled with things like ski pants, the hippest new threads for shredding the gnar-gnar on sale now in Hailey, Idaho. I parked my car next to the dancefloor and half an our of my changing into flouncy layered skirts I was asked to move it, I was skipped, relieved. I had sex with an obese black man who'd come from the Twin Cities to find me. some grandparents almost wouldn't let him in. analysis: I'm moving, don't know where I am have all of my things billowing from backpacks & car don't want to go skiing don't know black people lament for being missed don't know how to dance but want to be before a crowd
analrapist
therapist
it's overcast & so am I
at this internet cafe
fresh out of bed
fresh dirt sheets, chill out I'll wash them
we've jobs to do to end a vacation
ants in the bedlam.
