i tell myself, over and over, to start writing again. i tell myself, over and over, tomorrow?
New Jersey this month, hit by a hurricane, a foot of snow, seventy-degree sunshine- everything you'd think to throw and with weather as erratic as the voice inside my head you'd think there would be more poetry in what I have to say about it but there isn't, there's nothing, reading and sleeping and eating enough to keep everything quiet and dull and constant-
at sixteen I thought this would be best, center of gravity between head and feet, smile intact, happy and healthy and oh, now I just don't know. What do I want? almost ten years later and every desire is almost the same: distance, propinquity, the shiny and new and the comfortable, and the familiar, and the strange, the interests you confuse for immorality, the virtues I've called boredom.
oh I am not really looking for anything; apply too many fake eyelashes, blink heavily in morse code.