its hard to begin, being this thing, an 'I' in the throws of it, and i know,
this writing is not a senseful expression, it seems absurd, an ejaculation
of pronouns, signifiers, signs that lead no-place. Shall I believe this?
Would you believe me? The Answer is nothing. Time is nothing.
I am bound by other chains, of thought, and their recrimination, of sloth,
which has endangered chance. Prose and poetry no longer helps, I inch
forever towards an empty plot. If destiny and a call makes it through
to the other end, my cousin could answer, and she would give me advice
if i plea softly, and sincerely. Let's say for this entire month I have been
non-living, or we could go with 'this entire year'. I do dress mostly in
black. Have I become the widow, in slow eager steps, of my lost friend?
She had a seizure and busted her head, sending her straight to a back-stage.
That photo of her and hallie and i, chills me, frightens me, kills me.
There was something I lost, which is now replaced with a slumber.
I feel like fallen wood, at times adrift in a leprous river, at times stopped
against a littered shore. There is no one left to save me, but death will not have me yet.


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