sick &

sick &
sick & belching

the rice at a level the water never was

my spine, my back, my grace &

windn wavesn hawthorne

must reject everything

o lord o pass us by



if i can sustain the thought of
for just a little

care for the
and the feelings of

turning myself inside out and backwards
i have no semen left

i was filled with blood now chunky yogurt

if i could clear thickets from anywhere i would have more ideas

and here i give up without the boost to even take off



fragmented failing losing ships and speed

i cannot afford to change

i must wrestle you to the ground with a joy

the sense of alternatives at various levels


i have nothing to announce but there is much to say

this is not a device this is real