by god, and all his witnesses.
no. that's not quite it.
with or without witnesses
the i of the i of the eye iiaaaa I


a thousand years ago i got drunk a lot and stuck a lot of spun holes in the holes of my shoes a lot. there was a sound and a sense to the way words fell like lifeless pennies in the bottom of a bin bin bin. a sound like a swoosh goes here. and then a pause and a break and then.
a sudden stop.

oh. shut it.
this is how it goes.
something creepy and wonderful in the sunshine. like love and all the bloody afterparts.
glossy and stained and


i'm doing it again.

there's got to be something genuine in here anymore.
a rock. a rock. a rockrockrock.

some days, everything resolves itself to trolling the archives
for proof that i have [x]
x = changed; done something different; not fucked it all up; and so it goes
;whenever i might or might not have stopped using mostly only the gag-inducing-second person;
these days, i'm not waxing nostalgic for all that something else.
but only some. days.

there have been times like these, when.
i didn't know what to do and when.
i realized that i had lost the rhythm of the way the words fall
and the nightmares about every single thing.
the thing. the thing of the thing.

why should i, locked and stayed in a stone and sink in the safe space that holds. in a hull. stock and silent. still. has this, as always, been important to me. as ever, between sheets that stifle cries of anything and nothing. make the silence resolve itself into nonsense and sounds that only fall on deaf ears. to hear. voice or not. these sounds that fall out of this mouth and these tongues and these finger tips flailing. they don't. even. know. either, why should i. write a book about. or send messages into years and no one else. if i ever thought i should know. then, if ever. to know.