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  • When did you give up?

    When did you stop dreaming of the man and woman waiting somewhere with your kiss?

    What hour passed upon which you said I'm done no more this it I am through?

    Perhaps it was incremental which is to say beyond grasp by a small, discrete mind?

    What do I look like to you?

    Who let their mind go?

    Was it me or was it you?

    I'm not sure but I scratch my balls in private and that's our clearest distinction.

    I've drank more than you and slept in my clothes the last three days and somehow my hands on a drumset and words on a notepad make my dereliction tolerable.

    I wonder when Cowbird will feature my writing.

    I wish I could fly to New York and stop making inconsequential coupon dispensing web pages and emulate the Grand Architects of this self-sustaining story cloud seed machine.


    Till then a quote from a friend: I'm too stupid for New York and too ugly for LA.

    She imbibes too but her dress patterns hold up the walls and refuel her two cars.

    Perhaps you lack the wits of contribution and the looks of exploitation.

    My dad tells me I'm the best.

    What do your parents say?

    Did they pass away or just let you blow away?

    Now... you are my writing, you are my art, you're what angers a sensible parent.

    At night a meaningless weeping.

    All tears evaporate to fall from the sky, a cinematic foreshadow to some other's misery.

    I wrote recently that I read recently that tear ducts adapted in order to heal.

    So what pained you into concession?

    And why does it so pain me?

    Perhaps my weakness is my pity and the tears a remedy.

    I'm unclear how it makes either of us better.

    One day the salt will evaporate into the sky and the rain will heal us.

    Till then a sweatpanted man scratching his balls unabashedly.

    And a writer wrought with shame.
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