I'm trying to write, but nothing comes out. The last words typed, yesterday--before I found out that I owe more in taxes than I make in over 2 months wages and then cried self-pity intermittently into and out of people who love me and then into my pillow until my alarm rang me into hitting the long glossy give me 10 more minutes bar on the top front edge of my bedside clock--were: ideological divide. Then there's nothing. Then there's this. The slow spiral sirens calling out the tornado alarms yesterday afternoon like the punctuation of the empty spot on my couch that you left. That remained. A pang of the loss left to ring in my ears like a bell that's been struck. The silent ferocious fuck raising blood in the back of my throat to the smell of sun warmed pennies. Memory game. The endless mind suck of time and words.

I should go wash the sheets.