Monday, January 25, 2021
where some angel swung
an adorable ax like the crack
of a bell, and it sprang off once
wrenched free from both hands,
flying off down to hell, where
- who knows? It lands. With
the womb where she hung suspended
rung well, the angel stepped back
to regard its work. "That'll do
just-so, she'll grow into it." Indeed
she has, and her looks quite swell
to the point one feels quite full
one could spill anything like a jerk,
and she'd reach out and re-right
it with deft aplomb, and grace
and goodwill. But its something
quite else that she has. In her look.
Active and seeking, receptive and took.
It could knock coming thoughts
out the back of your mind, leaving you
to rewrite them all in nick-time
without any script left to guide
your tongue. There's always that cleft
in your cloven mind. You can go by
the shape that she leaves behind,
just about every time your mind
falls into and through that look,
leaving you struck, smote and blind.
What a bind to find selves in. Anyway,
these are only effects we make. Anyway,
it is only some cause of ours. Let's take
and uphold it before it takes shape.
Wracked by accustomed spasms and throes,
she waxed eloquent as her reason goes;
as the sense that she makes wanes sensible.
Punctuated by deepening gasps, and full:
"It's like" "My vagina" "Is trying to throw up!"
"In a good way!" she hastily clarifies, but
her beaming face now can tell no bold
and bare-ass lies, as she gropes within
to describe, describe, and I wonder
why. Oh why. Oh yes,
she is about
the worst-dirty talker alive, no doubt.
She has to be accurate, exact! She has
for some reason to explain all that
she finds moving within her
in this here play. This show.
This one Act narrative.
No one-man show, nor
woman, neither. A beast
of a having each other's back,
to give in slap and scratch
and tumbling sprawling in
to some uslike lovelike thing
we can always tap, on cue.
She can well explain that
better than I would,
Love's well worth
all catastrophes led
and leading on from
the storybook ends
towards which we direct
our cunning means,
and find ever after's
a beginning it seems.
Love's well worth
every dripping dip
from its hope-soaked rope
so well-bucket equipped
- since the well runs full,
we don't dip too far 'til
we both fall in.
At a penny a wish!
With all doors and all windows
flying ajar in the witch-house
with which this well belongs.
So gingerbread cottage and cheesing out
in innumerable songs we don't have
to believe. But the option is there.
And apparently does not deceive.
The first thing we learn,
perforce, on-course, is how
to love this you.
This must come first, because
it's the only way it comes at all.
The second thing
we begin to find out
is who the you you love quite is. Now,
this seems ass-backwards
to a couple of cognitive rockstars like us,
but do we give a toot? It works as it works,
and always further in
the deeper along we go
Argentina fixed her gaze.
Corrected mouth and brow
to show she's fine with your misuse
of name. Given to her long ago, and
well-worn out all since, she'd thought.
Her favorite color: was argent. A metal,
silver, heraldry. When Tina was romantic
once. Some wag caught on, put two and too
together into countryside as alien as her
to you. She'd loved it then, when silver shined.
She's realized since by gleamed degrees,
it's just a slanting bar of white. Not metal:
Cloth. Or paint. Or stain. Enameled clean,
but scrapes or rubs right off to show
what's just beneath. Impure, unsure,
and sinister in lean.
This friend, stands though: revealed. Old friend.
So long we've grown. And one is silver, one
is gold. Is either fit to carry on? Is either worth
the keeping, now? All metal grows so false
when told, somehow. All of the sliver fades
to moonlight; in the sun it's vanished, gone.
And nature's gold is scarce to find. Except
You ask have I seen that thing walk in? Yeah
buddy but to me she's no thing, just indubitably
GOT a thing, and she brings it swinging.
Yeah I've seen that thing. When that thing walks in,
and your idea of her (in my case, her) precedes
her arrival, heralding her by a staircase of steps
and probably spiraling, yet in that moment everything's
so level you can't tell up or down, or how far off
this first step is going to doozy you. You're just like
"Ooo. Girl I could help you fix that walk, because
you know, you need nothing in you or of you to change
least of all for me, but that WALK has something
WRONG in it to pull and swing the moon and heavenly
spheres in your cocky constellation of points, orbs, arcs,
stars and garters. THAT WALK has every animal
in visual, scent or sensual range on high alert, even
herbivores! LET ME HELP YOU FIX THAT WALK
- it'll hang and swing back into action just as fine,
just bad as it was NO DOUBT, in fact your walk
is an essentially immutable feature of the universe
(especially how you do it) and t'weren't nothing a-tall
wrong with it to begin with, but as it continues
closing in proximity, DAMN.
Let's work on that thing,
Together, ideally. I understand it comes together
in a pendulum cantilever principle towards the hip,
and carries up the spine and head and shoulders
proud and erect like an empress of angels, borne up
on one of those thrones-with-handles deals. A bier?
No...a...fuck. It is I who am too much upborne, uplifted
and potentially cast down upon bier. A litter? No,
that may be a word for it but it can't...A SEDAN!?!
Fuck, it literally is a sedan.
I wanted a fancy word. That smells of fine corinthian leather,
fuck a sedan. Anyway maybe consider me as one of your
bearers? or failing that, a pole. One of the stout poles
by which you carry on considerably, periodically as needed
and vigorously UPHELD, except - with a walk like that?
Who needs her seat upthrust in the air to be borne aloft
by hard-charging pole-bearers! Too much morbid association,
Point is. I digress and yes, I have seen that thing. However
I honor it, and it's nothing to do with her except as she likes.
I consider a person is severable and independent of any ideas
they give you. I'd guess and reckon seeing "that thing" walk in
hits each of us individually, in the eyes and instantly boom down
- not least since it's never the same "that thing." It takes our minds
and hearts (plus parts elsewhere) in different lines to different
impact craters, some bulging out with pent explosive force
from deep within, some knocked for a boom cloud
shockwave sudden hole, puzzling geologists for ages 'til
one of them met an astronomer. "Of course." "It seems
so obvious now. So basic. Even naïve. What dolts
all our uninformed ground-based theories have made
us." All as you walk by, not quite strut nor yet
quite saunter: Just a walk so much this way.
You swing the world as your pendulum sways,
you've caught every animal by the gaze,
you even move the Lord in mysterious ways
- great goddamighty girl what can I say?
FIX THAT WALK
I seen that.
It's fine actually. People making
a big deal over it have complicated themselves
a bit too much for proper peoplemaking. But
they're people too, dudes. And making their
own selves, to boot. Ooo.
I didn't even notice those boots. Nice
boots, boots! "Oh hi, you couldn't help
but notice me noticing your boots? Fine.
I assure you my notice was both accurate,
and deeply courteous. Has anyone ever told
you you have a walk? It's obvious, but some fools
- they don't notice the glory in the simplicity
of such things."
"Oh, wait oh. Okay. Yes, no I don't know that guy.
I haven't seen anybody with that haircut yet
though - you describe it admirably. Is his name
really Chad or is that a wink and a nod
Misunderstanding straightens out by
finest strands of clarity I find. Fix that talk
though maybe, buddy. It's a bit presumptuous,
and we know what I say. Never get presumptuous
unless you're about to get sumptuous. Good medicine.
You wanna see your problems glow?
A shining heap of sickness and low
You wanna wash the world in light?
Prepare yourself for one ugly sight
What do you want sunshine for?
What do you want sunshine for?
All it does is let you see more
of less and less left that’s worth looking for
You want to see for what it is?
Just close your eyes, first: picturing this
Eight billion kinds of crap, combined
Put out your eyes, this kingdom is blind
What do you want sunshine for?
What do you want sunshine for?
All it does is let you see more
of less and less left that’s worth looking for
Ask yourself: what do you really want to see?
Close your eyes. You're better off, imagination's free
You don't need, a stronger light to see what you can't fix.
Shadow deep, pull the blinds and find: what's there
to really keep
What do you want sunshine? For
The truth shall set us free
from every single bad dumbass
mistake, individually. Each grasp
we'd misbeget, construe or take in
wrong-way up, beheld awry. Whether it
be given false in outright lie, or given true
in innocence of how untrue that dumb thing
is - and in a sense, it doesn't make
The truth will set us free from this. Just this.
No clue as to how true the next thing is,
but this mistake is done. Stick this fork
down every road, we'll never take that
prong and run again. The toll
has been exposed. The toll is no
untold expanse of "maybe this?"
with which to shit one's pants.
We're free, from one dumb move
evermore again. So serially we
upon us from each side, begun
in sudden chance of rushing course
well-met sincere in gilt remorse:
Until we meet again, someday!
But neither now can linger here.
This day drives us apart, too bright
Or somedays maybe the reverse
And you are a honeyed hive
in dragonfly drag, with swarming murmuration
of starlings inside, and I know
it hurts. And you know
the worth. Separation hurts.
The difference between
us hurts twice as well, and I know
we can work
if we try.
Perhaps if there were some parallel
Sunday, January 24, 2021
Too much dinner on the plate
is not my kind of made mistake.
I like my portions sensible. And
generous. And back for more
full plates to fill, until until
I reach the point of pleasant-plump.
Or "fat and sassy," as needs want.
I never push past perfect, now.
It doesn't please my needs somehow
to meet them in the way beyond,
and call that find, and well, and fond.
So just imagine my surprise
to find this plate half-cleaned.
have just regressed to childhood,
I guess. Grown big while stomach's
stretch cries uncle, and demands
a rest. A respite, a reprieve
At some point I've got to
hunker down. Start doing
the dishes again. Relearn
how to bathe, and when
without relying on visual
or olfactory cues. Laundry
always needs to get done, yet
somehow never just yet. I know
how it works, how to make
whole operations run. No dares
no bets no very best guess,
the procedure's all laid out
plain to one. Which is all
the majority I've got to best.
Knuckle down, knuckle down!
Make myself somehow
knuckle under to my own
tyrannical rule! Time
for teachable moments!
This servant of mine (who
is quite inconveniently also
a fool) must lean who boss
is, calling the shots. And why
we must all pull together
in spots. It's unfortunately not
a democracy. More fiat
by veto, equally cool
and collected in ways
that nobody really needs
What did I want to do today?
And is it ruined this glorious morn
of downpouring down in sudden deluge
that began before I arose, and as yet
in buckets illimitable.
The common depression
our houses ring 'round begins
to resemble a flood basin. Begins
filling up with its purpose
so sound. So what
does this ruin, if anything?
No plan comes to mind, all laid out
before. Perhaps I should stomp and squelch
the lawn to garage, drag a kayak out
push it slid down the slope to splash
Saturday, January 23, 2021
She has this way of looking down.
She's reading this thing to me now.
Each word runs out in tripping rill
from mouth-enchanted sound she fills
with meaning she's selected well.
She's casually transfixed to tell
this thing she reads, she chose
- she has
of looking up, just as.
Transitions creep and riff
like jazz, now final lines
are reached and caught. She
switches riffs mid-step
as if quite unadorned.
Unclothed and brought
So warm and just like knew, each word
is born. From heart and borne
in mind, well-heard, yet carried
also now in sight
People afraid of manipulation
typically have good reason to be.
They warn you how sinister others are
- how there's no way to tell! 'Til the façade
flips up like a visor and leering back at you
suddenly is the sinister grin of a stranger.
A stranger who has made you - made you
Do What They Want. How? How
did they do this? How hoodwink, override
your will and defense mechanism, explicitly
vowed and sworn, honed and designed
to prevent just this, ever again
after last time! What part of
"Never trust again!" did one's
defense mechanism not understand?
First word, apparently. Two syllables,
starts with N. But how did they slip in,
work in, worm in and do the deed,
the deed, the vile deed
of manipulation? Which is: anything you do
hoping the other will react some way (positively)
hoping the other will see something some way
(hopefully). That's manipulation. It is the exclusive
province of evil, anyway, to hear some tell it. I think
they exaggerate somewhere and overlook their own
to arrive at that diagnosis. How, though how?
How was this cruel mind-trick pulled off
yet again upon one so leery and wary
you would not believe it? How did they
'make you' Do What They Want - which was
exactly what they wanted you to do?
The explanation will shock you. It's
a little too neat. They did it by the simple expedient
of you wanting it yourself. Wanting it for
the simple joy a free and stringless giving brings,
singing and ringing and growing in the giver. Leaving
the giver with more than they had before
they gave. For this one, all for this one,
who has made you want their own good. Because
you have found in their own good a great part
of your own. This
is what made you want to give.
What a dull and dishwater dirty trick
that is. You will scrub your hands raw
in this full and pinkening sink, empty
of bowls, plates, glasses or anything
you could fill with anything good,
empty of forks or knives or spoons
or anything usefully utensil, full
of used soap that has lost its sud
and the trace of blood you wash
and scrub from your hands, trying
to clean yourself. To purge yourself
of trust again. To scourge yourself
'til the lesson sinks in.
It's about manipulators. They are horrible
and you never can tell so it's too stupid
to risk. They leave you broken and drained
of all you freely gave. They identified you
in some way. You are helpless before
their guile and craft and graft and gaslit
clutches and grasps, once you let them
If you do, you're a fool.
They want you to feel or think some way,
or they do or say things hoping with motives
on full-bore ulterior that you
will do or say things. Specific things! Which THEY
choose to hope for! Not what you had in mind, maybe
but then you realize what THEY WANT ("hey, what a handy hint
- sweet!") and that makes you realize "hey, I kind of
want that. I want it too."
Guess what fool. You just got manipulated
and the more you look, the more you see
they're everywhere all up in your easy-access
mind and heart, apparently. Making you feel
and do whatever
they so very damn well please.
People afraid of manipulation
Typically have good reason to be.
Thursday, January 14, 2021
Yo man check out the ass on that
Did you see that shit?
Yo you know man I did, I just pointed it out? Don't call that shit 'shit' man - that shit's not shit, that shit's where shit comes from, man
Yo man I heard that! You said a mouth full, hoo
You bet I said and would not mind to get a mouth full of that!
NO MAN not shit! What is it with you and the shit! Shit, man.
Well you know they say I am the shit.
So you're asking if I want a mouthful of YOU?
SHIT, MAN no! I thought that's what you were saying?
No, man no. Just no.
Don't look angry, man. It's just a misunderstanding.
Man I'm not angry. I'm just on a lower level of feeling.
Hey man I been there.
We all been there. Difference is you bring me there
Damn man! Go water a garden or something.
Hey man you know what I'm starving. You wanna get a falafel
Wednesday, January 13, 2021
Life is one fantastic wank.
You get ideas in your head,
take it all in hand, work through
- and just as it's all coming true!
You see, in sudden dim result
your dreams are sick and dead
is all your fault.
Just you to thank. Life
is one fantastic wank.
yesterday, I deeply regret because
they would now be done. Even though
I know, most of those things I could do
now. That isn't the same appeal, "to do"
as opposed to "done." The one isn't real.
It's not even on a "to do" list to groan
with ticks as we check them through.
Tuesday, January 12, 2021
We break clean in cloven planes
and shatter out to starred remains.
Then next intake of breath, we cleave
back in and unto each, and grieve.
The shards cohere. The cracks melt
clean. The meaning in between us
gleams. We tense and wait for
this next breath - and crack.
And fix. From now 'til death.
to get this done? Don't I care how
everything I do to put it off
becomes no fun?
Not with the Thing Itself
looming over all. The Thing
I've Taken On and Know
it Shall and Must Be Done,
whether or not I fall.
We still have time
to put this off.
It might not be too late
to let it slip a little
further towards. We'll
make it up with grit
and sudden zeal!
We've done it before.
We've failed a time
or two, but overall
these skills are real.
This is how in these ways
we go forwards.
Don't I know the longer it's put off,
the dread aversion stretches and grips
and grows? If I stopped and did it now -
just did it now.
I feel I could, you know.
I've worked it through (in thought)
all necessary steps, and factored
in the time allowed - and some remains!
There is yet time. If I just stopped
and did it now, by this point, from
the habit dragging out, the urgent color
seeping into everything, it would be
several days before it all unstains.
Recurring panic, my old friend, will
keep swooping in again repeatedly,
uncued - non sequitur suddenly dispelled
by the realization: "oh yeah.
I've done that now."
I have to do,
Somehow from past encounters, I know
that light relief, release, is going to feel
okay. I know it from experience. I also know
it can't be worth
Monday, January 11, 2021
Friday, January 08, 2021
and pour some ice cubes in -
they say it tastes better cold
- but hey, whoever drank it
warm? I have
And I can say, I think
it doesn't taste better cold. It's just
that cold is a separate pleasure, so
pour that ice in whatever measure
fits your sense, and if
you wished a mixer? Well
the time to add that swill
is now. Try Bitter Lemon, or
vermouth? How classy must we
now be, now? Forsooth, it takes
a certain instinct and a sensitivity to mix
a tall cool glass of - idiot.
You forgot the glass. Please fix
Thursday, January 07, 2021
I used to love field days
We never went anywhere
Just put our coats on and tromped
a couple blocks to the beach
to inspect shit that had washed up.
Teacher being randomly informative
sometimes going on about crap
like clouds - even though these
were not sand, or waves, and in fact
were visible from the school
and the whole way walking.
But I guess in these unstructured
moments, the gears slip sometimes
a notch or two
and you forget what you're here
to teach the kids
and you wonder what
that dark twisty weird thing is
this kid is showing you
and sway can redeem an otherwise not-one's-body type
pretty easy. I mean, rail-thin scarecrow looking dudes?
In general, perhaps not. As a corpse on a slab, no. Unattractive
some might say. But jolted to electrochemistry magnetism
by inner swag, grace of ease and a certain cool disdain
of the eminently disdainable - say, Jarvis Cocker circa
first solo album? Damn. That man shook his SWEAT
on me and the whole couple front rows
and I mistook it for holy water!
I wasn't even a fan
when I walked in. That dude
is the definition of the transcendence of one's body type.
Pardon the borderline homoerotic idolatry, but there it is.
I've met a large number of people whose confidence
was the sexiest thing about them. In some cases,
there wasn't anything to "overcome"
in particular, but in others
the overcoming was effortless.
Tuesday, January 05, 2021
In healing - to rain
A hard bright fancy bears
wings forward, only to. There isn’t there,
is there? Yet between inside the underward and upward,
we find stop. Stop.
Stop goes on like nothing else, honeywhat.
Where the old days, flown as always, rampaged
like runaway monoliths and bulwarks
to an immutable force which proved
all too resistible to each and all, at least
of us. Who were we then?
Just who we are now. Who are we now?
Feathers kept in disaster scrapbooks.
Sand-pieces. Capital equipment investments
for a nonsense factory, sitting waiting our temporary place
in a descending warehouse whose basement’s an upscale
graveyard. In these necks of this long-since clear-cut woods,
that’s what passes for gentrification.
Eventually it begins to make sense. You can’t pretend
incomprehensibility indefinitely. If you keep running
that track in mind your feet (mind’s feet) begin to make sense
of it, from sheer impact, solidity, shin splints (mind’s shins)
(mostly the left). The sense it begins to make is inescapable
and you want to run away - but you can’t.
That’s what got you here. The sense it makes grows to inhuman.
Then you laugh. Not because you were about to cry. It appears
to have been some sort of autonomic response. A biological
or neurological (or some other kind of -logical that doesn’t help)
response to any inexorable attempts at sensemaking directed
to absurdity, or at it. You laugh.
Because you realize that didn’t make sense at all.
It was incomprehensible.
In practice I find “reality”
works for whatever hypothetical
encompasses the cosmos. It seems
to be able to be framed or looked at
almost any number of ways. Even people
who conceive reality radically differently
can often interact quite seamlessly, each
finding a place
within their own frame
for what the other sees and says.
They differ, agree and interject,
interplay. They criticize fundamentally
- but for all their see and say, each seems
to locate it all in reality.
Oh, some of what the other says
they locate in illusion, delusion, deceit
- these concepts are realer than anything
to one who must needs proceed ruling-out
In short we use reality
to negotiate the difference
between our frames. It works,
since each is keen to show
the superior fit of their frame
to it. Reality wins all arguments
into which anyone lets any fit.
Sunday, January 03, 2021
You're like this
squeeze of piss I had.
Not the last, but leading up
to it. There were some squeezes
more, before I had to up and quit.
But you were such a special one.
Relief had just swept in, and I
knew then than that I was almost
done. But there was more to go,
just then. You gave me courage
to go on. Your passing from
my life was full. Reminding me
how bad it's been to keep myself
Friday, January 01, 2021
through its canopy spread
Making shadow webs stretch, intershift
and connect in leaf and branch swaying
through white-flamed dark
It's a place we would meet
in some strange, shared dream.
We don't know.
All we know when we see those lights
spreading out and above, walking in
from each side, catching eyes: is this.
So long as we stray, so long as those
lanterns are lit, it can never be day.
It would stay this night, only always
this night, going never amiss.
Wednesday, December 30, 2020
I wish you didn't know how much
I love you. There's no denial I could use
to get around it now. It's not as if I don't
trust you, I cannot help it now. I do.
I'd sacrifice myself to anything
you would allow, and I can't help think
and feel that means you've got me
at a disadvantage, well. There's no one
I would rather have me at one of those.
But I kind of wish you didn't know.
It's more fun if it's a surprise how much
I would destroy myself, just to make
you throw a pose.
Tuesday, December 29, 2020
I am owed this view. Those few
rough and jagged peaks, small
in the background, stage left. This
circular pool of reflected sky, dirtied
in water and somehow made iron-red murk
and algae-green livid without brown, somehow
remaining a lake (with one mountain's peak
on tip-toe! Sticking its head in on a hot day).
A hot day so high up there's snow below us
now. As if to incomplete the scene's stark
and spare austerity: a scrubby stubble
of random plants at this height, struggling
to look respectable despite the disreputable
aspect. Nothing this high could thrive
but in this moment, I do. And you.
I am owed this view, having taken
all the long tramp and toil to earn
it. And you, for dragooning me up
to this death-hike, are perhaps
owed something too.
Monday, December 28, 2020
I’d be a little leery of my progress
(if any) if I found myself 'justifying things'
that actually could use any. Those are things
I’ve been much more comfortable sticking
crowbars into, cracking the plates open
and pee peeing on the innards. Then bash
liberally about in there with the crowbar.
If I stand back and when I’m done, the thing
slap-clicks shut again, sprung up humming
and whirring in key-perfect pitch to life,
in complete working order and fighting trim,
as my big brother’s buddy
Rob used to say, “So what
that let you know?”
It seems quite possibly, the thing was well
beyond justification in the first place. Since
tested, proved, a bunch of wrenches dumped
into the works and they all worked back out,
the mechanism found (essentially) sound,
(at least, major flaws of a venture all known,
understood and agreed acceptably risky by both
most concerned). Discovered to be immune
to investigative techniques of the rudest most
hard-eyed and mercifully ruthless kind.
In other words by no justification possible,
whatsoever required. Or employed. Why would I,
and why would anyone?
It must be people don’t know or understand what
they want, with this justification business. The only
justification process that counts worth a damn
in my eyes is the one employed in the scientific
method. You get a big idea. You sketch out (predict)
outcomes, and then you make the most sincere attempt
to destroy the thing every way conceivable or possible,
You attempt falsification. In dread earnest and with
perfectly pitiless precision and rigor, with even undue
diligence, whatever you can think of that even maybe
it can’t take - which is no bar to courtesy, of course.
It’s the idea you’re interested in beating to hell, not
the bright idear. Idea-er. Idea woman, or idea man,
as you prefer.
That’s how you smack a rocket into Mars. It’s how
you translate the entire human genome into Esperanto,
it’s how you fall in love and how you fall out of it,
and break up in the atmosphere into burning shards
of what used to be two souls made flesh, now separating
in flaming plumes, angling down to where their craters
Whether people realize it or not, that’s what we’re doing
down here. It works. Justification is a shill job, trying
to persuade somebody or oneself plus others to an idea
they can already see the problem with, instead of banging
in at it with every wrench and spanner in reach that could
possibly fit, not to fix but wreck the proposition.
What stands that stands forth. The justifiers, though,
who stand and stall, trying to persuade all concerned
to be less concerned about this, and more concerned
in a course they none of them have even tried to destroy
not in earnest!
- are quite mad.
Saturday, December 26, 2020
and gone so fast beyond all touch
well that's the way to have some fun
I guess it means as much to you
and fled as far beyond recall.
Leaving you at least as me.
the dumbest fun of all
Thursday, December 24, 2020
tomorrow?" "Go ask your mother,
the Forbidden Temple." "Aw dad,
you know mom never says anything.
And her priestesses and goons keep
everybody out - you have to bolt
the cordon and sneak the gauntlet
to get to the inner chamber, and
then all you get's a feeling of deep
weird peace - like you shouldn't
"Well, technically daughter,
nobody should. Nonetheless, you
know - you must ask your mother this.
I cannot say." "But she can't either!"
"True," he looked reproachful, self-
and otherwise. "Perhaps it is time
for you to make up whatever you
want her to say and just say she
Her eyes got wide
"I REFUSE!" she demanded. "Well,"
her know, then."
She called Shyla. And let her know
It's as if you ignored or never got
my call, my letter, or my text telling
you I love scumbags, keep it coming
please keep butting in, barging, reaching
out into my moments and making
a welcome scumbag nuisance of yourself
with your risible and despicable bullshit.
or you didn't think I meant it?
Oh well. I hope this finds you well,
either way okay. I recognize it's your call
after all's said and done whether to drift
or carry on, and I honor it, scumbag.
Yours all the way out here,