the (sub) tropic of (pre) cancer

woke up in the kitchen  saying how the helld this shit happen oh baby

to practice

the why?

remember the garbage destroyers, the ones

who takes the reproductions you do

of you,  the waste you

think you made enough of

from the black notebook on the table, an open letter:

I am sorry I doomed it on the drive, in the dream, from my body a day after

those little caresses on the 

hairs of (my?) a heart

coming true

giving me yours, make it

I'm glad a glad a

it started pouring down tropical rain 

and I went out into it

and Chad came out, flipping off his slips

and soaked himself in January

January in the Tropics

you deserve your name

invisible limbs

a cloud of verse

make me

full

  funnel

you

make me forget

that I'm my month

 and I'm hunting for my

full

  wolf

dear goodbye

I had a bunch of fevers this week, and I woke up all the time in a pool of sweat, and so there I was tearing off sweats & sweatshirts and cursing, and going to the bathroom and feeling my hairline dripping down me and my neck in all its wettest glory. And I had to move to the other side of the bed so's not to sleep in my pool, on your side is how I called it. but then I woke up today, and I washed what I'd referred to as your pillowcase, and I changed the sheets so the color wasn't even the same, and I moved the lamp to the opposite side, and I vacuumed up your hairs, and the edges of a condom wrapper (how the vacuum shouted then!) and I cursed more, and then I screamed at a tiny yellow spider, for even though I don't fear them they still make me startle in girlish outbursts always. all of the bits of sentences, though, I save for you for "one day" inside a pink envelope. because though I sucked all remnants of you up in that stupid plastic machine, still you remain or at least I can't have you not a little, for now. for now

bequieteth

be not afraid of feeling good,
be not afraid of getting told,
be not afraid of tiring old
be not afraid of trying alone

Mine own hairs stand on end, my own endless days lengthen. My letters excess them selves and superlative the ends of wordss, I am lying, just a body with only life at the wrists and on. So the fingers, bare hands. Fingernails doing the efforts for the restof me.