Forty-nine: Disconnection Notice.

I’m siting in foreign chairs, ballerina straight,
ruby red slippers sliding together like magnets.
It is so quiet.
I can hear the sugar crinkle in its silver bowl.
Somewhere all around me, the world blots its words
onto my reality like a blurred batik.

I puppet-part my lips to speak but instead of
songs, bubbles burst out like silent, transparent planets.

I think: I’d like to sit still like this for a long time,
trapped in this jelly veneer of tripping circuits.

It is easy to float in a sea of your own sadness… Until
the day you accidentally learn how to swim.

I read a crap book today. It was called Little Bee.

I have been awake for almost 36 hours.

I have been writing mediocre poetry all month. This makes me sad.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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