why do you mean what you do to me? because i say you do. but i couldn’t tell you the content of that meaning. different things fill it in and nothing is so space- inefficient as a word or idea the thin line of a ballpoint demands fat invisible surrounding moats of margin i choose to worship consequence of combination. the reason you mean to me is grout between tiles its adhesive depends on the specific set of distinct, discrete things involved. or alternatively, you could look at it as whatever just happens to be there. you somehow became a shape that brought it together. cast it into one united object i could hold a fish’s skeletal mold instead of indiscernible piles of skinny, sharp bones. and somehow now untied all those place-s where, you know, love, ought to be found and what it’s thought to naturally wind around toxic day felt like a thick cumulate cloud flooding up from my gut and released as pretty sick green mist into my thoughts. i could hardly walk across the room the day after my new friend and i traversed the borough and dragged our shoes across some graves. i thought the poison gas was stuck in me and my imagination but at the waterfront, just knowing you got me thinking about my capacity for fantasy before it all got so weird and illicit in this adult way and i could appreciate the raw force within me the god of romantic energy. it’s more important to believe in what i say. maybe it’s not so trivial, laughable to need something indefinable, maybe it’s not so small in fact maybe it’s huge - the space between things that we don’t name and differentiate. finally i forgave myself for needing you i was needling you and slowly i turned the sharp on myself this time consciously, pictorially and to friendly ears in healing hearing warmth what is that missing flavor that i need? else. possibility. an answer other than a yes or a no. where is my libido moving. acting. rolling, hugging its knees as it fully embodies and enjoys its own feelings in all their immediacy where’s that drive in my newfound state of health? modulating my mood boosting background experience? when it runs wild and has nothing to tether it’s all strung out energy rising in my chest, spurts of electric joy and the instability of current. and so i could recycle or send it deep into the ground or tie it up with whatever work there is but anything besides plain release takes some kind of zen mastery, still a mystery or is it the same as meditating, that you just do it so i’m glad i haven’t heard from you. horizontal screen lights up the corner of my eye like lightning exhumes a black sky how come today i suddenly think i’m a figment of your imagination? better drink cold water again. i don’t know you and there’s a stack of paper on my desk and things to sing and platonic intimacy is a good glass pane to melt onto instead. oh, whatever, it all equals out- silver and gold and will i ever give up the oracle? i was thinking about what it is - if it works - and a moth landed on my window screen. on the other side of the foggy gray day.

fat feelings radiate up my from my second brain and press my throat and i can feel it pressing behind my lip and in between them both you love crying. feed it mother's milk; don't raise our sexual connection on formula who was that sexy crooner again? dammit. did it tweak my brain? draining. my fire keeps sputtering has everything reset a stitch to the right, an indetectable distance but everything's all off now hiding, capo'd and tuned down, then flame flaring up quickly again, proud dre was mean to me in my dream. we were switching off verses in a joke song but he was singing over my verses too, and i told him to stop interrupting me, and he told me to fuck off, essentially. commit to something. 2 years in grad school romance? i love crying. feed me that all enveloping, baby. i'll dry it out with sand to keep it balanced, my friend. are you falling down an air shaft in place with me? the fat thing from my throat drops all the way down to my pelvis sometimes. that tumbling feeling. who is like the softest most formless sea? who is like not a projection of material? my own interiority all i got from those letters was a sense of the presence of curvy angles the tubular, muscular walls of your maze creative genius knows how to walk the halls of her own inner maze every single day blindfolded and guided by pure intuitive ritual myopic sensation powered by fire. my sigil and i are wet and faded red we hibernate when it's cloudy toeing the rounded curve of the mooned spotlight at the feathering of the edge, perfectly as if on a balance beam who is like the softest, most formless sea? who is like that most fat feeling?