:
It's almost 6am now thursday
morning.
the sun has risen & spillt all its light in my windows.
I could tell you the temperature.
It's hot. It's cold.
I'm lying.
My words belong to
spite &
Dostoyevsky & I say them with pride. because I have to.
I write them.
I'm lying.
My head is full of glossy newspaper advertisements &
throw away coffeecups.
My head is full of
adventure and the future, the next chapter in the
plot(my head is full of plots).
My head is full of thoughts about my friends & family.
They will not be trivialized by
novels
the story does not exist to cover the
wonderful madness of my loved ones.
I
think of them.
Nothing I say is true anymore.
Something I said has
truth.
I feel the
decay in my words & it saddens me.
I want to carve these words into a brick:
"The
time is 5:26am"
I feel like an old man.
Everyday it feels like I get older.
I have no fear of death.
I've felt cosmic vibrations while eating
fruit loops. I've smoked a bug.
ha, I repeat,
I've smoked a bug.
Take that,
tom mooney.
Take that,
allen ginsberg.
I will not drink your tea, take
india away from me.
I hate yoga. I practice every day.
Both of these things are false.
I have
floundered around too long, far too long, in this silly place.
I am losing, & I hate it.
I am a little boy.
I think I will take my ball, & go
home.