mmmx

Splat!

mmmix

The Hill With No Fire

The hill of blooms

is a disaster, having

so recently lost its

battle with the hill

of dreams, and this

just on the heels of

enduring the scourge

of the desiccated riv-

ulets (the arcane sky

rolls its big orange

eyes, squeezing out

the slightest bit of

steam).  The rest

of us, all of God’s

creatures, no 

longer able to

slink onto the

set stealthily

enough to go 

relatively un-

noticed by a 

dwindling future

of gawking, needling

fans (and what an audience!) —

the prop mavens, having already

scoured our obscure, imploding

planet readying for this week’s

episode of How to Grow Hungry

and Die w/o Ever Taking a Breath,

each lie grasping for a state of semi-

consciousness just under the crust

of the knoll at the bottom of the

other side of this once wondrous

plateau, in a room called the

Cavern of Blue Dreams —

mmmviii

Meanwhile massive trees have whispered thumbs...
                                        —Kevin Killian

We all want to
get out. Some
of us, on a
mountain,
want to go
higher.

mmmvii

a conversation

i just don’t

understand

how i can

explain

things

so well

these

days.

     i agree.

     you’re

     right.

     what a

     true nerd.

you have

to admit

that it’s

a pretty

airtight

argument.

     great.

     wonderful.

     btw, i really

     need some

     sleep.

i’m just so

unused to 

being able

to so elo-

quently and

succinctly

do that!

     no need to

     be sorry.

what is

happening

to me lately?

     perhaps

     you’ve de-

     ciphered

     rocket

     science.

it just makes

me so angry

that i could

not do this

years ago!

     you always

     resort to 

     demeaning

     the brains,

     somehow.

so what you’re

saying is that

i am right.

     . . .

right?

     sorry, but

     that was

     very funny.

...

     good

     night.

goodnight.

mmmvi

i keep thinking 

of what i was 

going to name

this.  i suppose

it was too good

to remember.  i

keep wanting to

rhyme remember

with ember, but

now it’s a bla-

zing flame.  i

worked tooth

and nail on

all my to do’s

only to see

the whole 

thing go up

in smoke.  my

work, the list,

my tooth, my

nail and what-

ever it was 

that i was 

going to 

name

this.

mmmv

not the best one

it is a routine,

this sinking

toward sleep,

shuffling to-

ward the door-

way to dream-

land.....

drifting...

...drift-

ing...

it has

been

the 

most

diffi-

cult

day

ever en-

countered.

and then

that des-

perate

scream

again.

there

are 

words.

you 

grab hold

and are

jerked

out of

the 

drift

and into

the light

(you’ve 

left the 

light 

on); 

the

screams?

then.  it 

comes to 

you.  fol-

lowed by a

second jolt

(only moments

ago you were

at the doorway

to dreams), the

voice,

the voice...

is mine?

and there

were words.

the words.

the only 

ones re-

called, but

swiftly, were

chilli relleño.

yes,

today

was 

like

that.

in

ex

plic

able.

mmmiv

telegraph from

the rock and

the hard place

this 

just

in,

stop.

(no,

really,

please

stop.)

call

off

the

dogs,

get

rid

of the

goons,

dis-

patch

the 

guard,

and 

send

in the

clowns.

mmmiii

making cents

he’s an oddball

but no baddie,

really.  he makes

his lists to do and

never orders

anything to go.

the seafarers

know him for

looking at

blue whales

a bit askance

and for em-

barrassingly

long periods

of time.  i

saw him

myself only

once.  he was

reading an

atlas that 

never even

shrugged.

all of this

comes to be.

and the itchy

desire to make

it more and more

absurd as i go along

captures me and

turns me into the 

boy who cried 

wolf!  i try to 

slap on an

adroit con-

clusion as

if it were

the taut

and ripe

behind

of a

dearest

comrade,

but then

i realize

this cannot

be right. it

just wouldn’t

make sense to

make sense

at all.  so i

aim for

anarchy,

my worst

nightmare.

i grow more

and more com-

fortable with this

madness and the

dark shadows 

wrap them-

selves back,

and inward, 

curling at

and into my

skin, which

remains in-

tact, gives

no proof

of evil’s

appearance, 

because evil

simply

doesn’t

exist.  

which,

in the 

end,

makes

perfect

sense.

mmmii

a map of the world

this mesh black
business chair
is friendship.
the t-shirt i
have halfway
pulled up is
soul.  the
breakfast
i had yes-
terday (but
not this morn-
ing) is love.
the mustard-
colored plush
(and i mean
amazingly
soft!) sham
that fits
over my
entire bro-
ken bed
is my
country,
or my
travels
from
country
to country
in an effort
to understand
and be comfort-
ed by diversity
and the oddities,
the disparities
that exist from
culture to culture.
the orange juice,
dr. pepper and
gallon of milk
that i fell asleep
and woke up
(just now) next
to is my family.
the keys to
where i live,
which i finally
found, are the
many paradoxes
of home.  that
half-eaten bag
of potato chips
is my body and
the chips inside
are who i am
in relation to
the spiritual
and whether
spirit exists.
there are cans
of vegetables
and soup,
which are the
many people
in my life.
a broken
peanut
butter
cookie
next to
the sink
is hope
and the
two slices
of bread
left in
the blue-
checkered
wrapper
over there
are optimism.
i type this
on a laptop
(values) which
sits on a pillow
(heat) atop my
crossed legs
(lineage).

mmmi

The King of Heartbreak City

Mister Burg
Clerk.  Missus

Because She
Simply Cannot

Read.  Mister
Approximately

Association and
his colleague,

the hardhearted
and mysterious

Mr. Every After-
noon.  Professor

Colleague, who
often learns to

live (approx-
imately here).

Missus Dis-
associate, at

tea, with Mr.
Every After-

noon, most
evenings.  At

just about
half past 1700,

shortly be-
fore eating,

Mister High
Above the

Pacific thinks
about eating.

He thinks of
each and every

restaurant in
Heartbreak

City, a cozy
flat, lush

jut of land
that spreads

in every
direction

from Mister
Annexed and

Mister Inc-
orporated’s

architecturally
au curaunt

castle,
which

sits high
above the

Pacific
Ocean at

cliff’s edge
(with ocean

view) of this
lush, flat

jut of
heartbroken

but gorgeous
land.  Mister

Actuality
is not even

a citizen
of the

annexed
and inc-

orporated
city of

discombob-
ulated heart-

break.  Bob
the Inter-

national
Treaty’s

back itches.
It drives him

bonkers.  The
host, Mister

Sommelier,
turns to Mister

Downturned
and Missus

Long Faces.
Mister Lobster,

who was married
by The Reverend

Year of Our Lord,
in the Year of Our

Lord Nineteen
Hundred and

Sixty-seven,
sits at the

cliff’s edge
alongside Mr.

Smug and Mrs.
Corner of

Mouth.  It is
not even a city.

Too teeny-tiny.
But it is lush

and it is
beautiful

and it is theirs.
At the celebration,

the anniversary
of the annexation,

Mister and Missus
Swift and Bloodless

graciously
thank the

hired help.
Doctor Iconic

shuffles home,
which is directly

across the street
from the stadium.

From high atop
the lighthouse

here in lovely
Heartbreak City,

the tenders of
bar, Ambassador

Unbeknownst
and Mayor

Disc Jockey,
are arrested.

mmm

fragment

naturally i dream
when the sun beats
like a pelt against
my window screen


______________
__________ hence
i am not octagonal
(but i am nocturnal)


living two floors
above the courtyard
of desire shoves
its puny fist into


_____________
the garden hose

mmcmxcix

The Container

My head is more than
full .. is more than full
of the most awkward
fruits. The ones from

lands too far away to
even imagine when
these gem-colored
fruits have come

such a distance
just to lodge
themselves
inside of a

skull that
mathem-
atically
cannot

even con-
fine such
a single
misshaped

eccentricity,
even if it were
otherwise a dry
and empty shell,

housed within a
container that,
long after I
am no longer

one with its
physicality,
will appear
perhaps right

here, as if a
moth-eaten
rag of a mask
that would

not cover
but a much
tinier head
than the

one it does
now, drops
like a man
in a suit

from the
top floor
of a sky-
scraper,

in dizzy,
slow-mo-
tion ex-
haustion,

until its
puffed
chin
sound-

lessly
stops
in the
middle

of my
chest,
jarring
what’s

inside
my head
such that
an uncomf-

ortable cur-
rent gives
my spine
a hyper-

spastic
jumble
that
climbs

like a
rolling
quake
up my

back
but
just
to

edu-
cate
my skull
full of awk-

ward fruit
about con-
finement and
incarceration;

of min-
imal
rights
and

slavery.
And they
(my skull;
its con-

tents)
in turn
force up-
on me the

keenest
most fer-
ocious
percep-

tion, an un-
derstand-
ing of the
universe

and its
collect-
ive mig-
raine.

All this
tran-
spires
here ..

in my
solitary
home ..
which,

appro-
priately
enough,
is about

the size
of a
common
coffin.

mmcmxcviii

Fireball (a codespondence)

you’re wearing sainthood so well!

     and you’re lookin’ pretty smooth
     yourself.

but i don’t feel silky.  like, at all.

     you mean like a marshmallow?

hey. that’s a peanut butter cup to you,
mister.

     well aren’t you the persnickety
     whippersnapper all of a sudden.

that is correct, sir.

     no worries, then.

there never are any, sir.

     like a thicc marshmallow smoothie
     that no matter how hard you suck
     you can’t even get a taste for like
     30 minutes.

that’s right.  you’re no dummy.

     but ... my marshmallow has
     the memory of a goldfish.

i guess that’s relatable.

     let’s be real, though.  you’re
     absolutely right.  30 minutes
     is just not enough.

you …

     it needs to be unsuckable
     for at least an hour and a half.

you are so totally …

     i am just an icon smoothie!

you’re so s&m!

     whoopsie!  but i was singing.

it’s not exactly.... hmp.  i bet you
own an actual leather whip that’s
twice as tall as you!

     at present, i am not so sure.

kapow!

     snap!

but that’s not really the point,
is it?

     splash dunk!

sizzle-izzle!

     ka-chonk!

why don’t we take this whoopsie
kapow sizzle into the…

     anyway, are we finished now?

but we’re on fire!

     i may never have been in on
     the joke, anyway.  in fact,
     maybe …

aw come on!  that doesn’t mean
that we need to be unsuckable
for an hour and a half!

     maybe …

or what am i not getting?

     maybe the joke’s always been
     on me.

well.

     i mean …

i still love jaden’s new song, though.

     sigh.  but i can only think of willow.

excuse me?  i’m still having a funny attack
over here.

     maybe there wasn’t a joke after all.

well aren’t you just a hot slice of scruff ...

     stuck in a smoothie generation, no less.

who thinks he’s the butt of every joke.

     don’t i know it!

and there are a lot of joke butts out there.

     let’s be real.
     in reality …

in reality, we are all just stuck inside of an
excruciatingly long, tedious novel about
the one who gets the spotlight …

     vs. the one who doesn’t.
     you’re ever the
     broken record, bub.

you know, sometimes you really get me.

     uh huh.

didn’t you suggest a …

     kapow!

uh huh.

     now you’re talking.  i mean.
     well.  you always talk.

uh huh.

     but that will always be my favorite
     hit!  who’s got the handcuffs?!

what, it’s the apocalypse already?

     not sure.  but i definitely
     know where you can get a
     pair of ’em.

and i’m sure it’s a basement bargain,
to boot!


[rimshot. darkness. apocalypse.]

mmcmxcvii

Dodo Bird Rhapsody

I did it
in a minute.

hashtag:
still here;

still jo-
king; qu-

irkyalone;
1980’s;

blonds vs.
brunets;

quaran-
teeny.

mmcmxcvi

Bold Stroke

I have always said
that Mister Green-
jeans has a late
lunch with the
Stepford Twins,
paints the times
with a rather
large brush.
I never knew
that such
broad
general-
izations
had Rocky
elope with
Bullwinkle
to (Viva!)
Las Vegas,
opened the
long-clogged
infrastructure
of vessels that
at some dim
point in mem-
ory made like
a traffic jam
in which for
a decade I
breathe and
the blood
doesn’t get
to my brain;
floodgates
that some-
how man-
age to say
yes to no-
stalgia
again
and
again.

mmcmxcv

Domo Arigato Doctor Demento

Today, I am thinking
That it just might be
The bomb diggity
To get a frontal lobotomy.

mmcmxciv

Venetian or Tunisian?

I am such an idiot!
I don’t know why I forgot
That I am not a Cypriot.

mmcmxciii

Happy Snippets
(that survived the
general uproar)

“I was eating but I just got your message
 should we say goodnight soon?”


         “[worried, to himself] well, this definitely
          could be defined as hunger.
          ...
          I no make sentence pansied in proper pan skillet.”

“Oh, hey, which skillet? I myself am
 taking a break from the biting and chewing and
 swallowing to lie down in solidarity with
 food coma.  And play a game.”

          “You there?!  It’s your turn!”

“Deeeeeelicous!”

         “Delicious, yes.
          Didn’t you say you taste like bacon?
          Maybe?”

“I might have.
 Cuz I am a pig.
 And I love to eat them, too.
 Also, everybody knows that I am bacon’s
 number one fan.”

          “Why do I have a feeling that the more I know
           of you the more amazing I will realize you are?”

“You and me both [nervous laughter emoji]”

         “Understanding well that you strongly dislike
          pigeon’s buttholes, and given that I have
          nevertheless only known you now for [checks
          wristwatch] six months....”

“You sweet, sweet man!”

          “It looks great!”

“Uhhuh. It is incredibly hearty!”

         “Hearty...
          Sweet.
          Savory, actually.
          Stay safe!”

“Well, as for my something new, I am getting a large
 peach slushy.”

          “Yes, I could see that.”
 
“You are quite the experienced man, you know!”

          “And you, young whippersnapper, are a
           genius!”

“There’s a sentence with an obvious butt at the
 end of it.  Do proceed.”

          “Sweet dreams.”

“It is a dog eat dog world out there. You, too!”

mmcmxcii

Domination is damnation.

You each, we each,
Owe those we spite: enough
Love,
Freedom and
Equality for 1,000 lifetimes (and with a
Gouging
Regret).
Our apologies burn, oh blessèd
Emblem of our soaring, incomplete
Guilt.

mmcmxci

Matterings*

Stew too eerie?
Stew too bare?
Boo hoo leery!
Whom to wear?

I tip cars grooving, many hounds run and pout.
See birds more lauded cut my salve, um, the louts!
“Matthew be guy.” At last it has been said.
Sue took a pee. The mastiffs scour, bend to laze.
Hitchhiker’s stealing cats? Depends. Under age?
Kento be lies. Do men sow what they bleed?

Butter curds, more! Minoan isn’t many. Four?
Gunther heard more. The dom he, no gun, glistens.
Hot mustard for Ben (moan!) pissing (whizz!).
To muse walking that mall.
Blue shoes, no stockings that’s all.

*to be sung to the tune of “Words” by Missing Persons

mmcmxc

The Village’s Idiot

If you can film it, it’s not real, just so you know.
                                                  —Carrie Fischer

livid mousse
entrapped
upon the

concrete
sphere / it’s
been ass

essed that
justice is
only just

but thru the
looking glass,
you see

/ not
tonight to
ward off

all the
schools —
in bluest

tooth to
winnow
all but

the hoop
iest loop
iest min

now the
house :
the zaf

tigest
whaliest
goof of

a house /
a sub
species

all of its
self / it feigns
pains to plan

the plan
that’ll — men
acing — soon

be panned /
because only
the pomp

ous know
the ult
imate traj

ectory of
the snap
of the pan

orama that
is shot /
but oof! /

alas, it lands
but / ouch! /
a smidge to

the south
and beyond
the pond

erosa and its
yet not pet
rified inhab

itants / who
were only
just about

to send their
annual school
of papooses off

to ponderosa
kindergarten /
because papa

ooses are a
sign that you 
are a papa, you

see or do not
see / but soon
instead its den

izens are frantic,
fanning poose
less flames for

life (as zip!
they make like
vacuees and flee!) —

resembling most
the dangling fat
flat-screen tee

vees each once
decreed a home
— and I do mean

verily! mean 

while the floof
amid the roiling

boom kaboom
that sent his
whizzbang bowl

ing ball a-whistle /
he sees it whiz
right thru the soon

burnt forest only
to land / alas!
just south and

past the pond
erosa / never
the less sending

its scurried
swath of
habitants

and their
swiftly
scooped

papooses fran
tically into
the now burnt

forest / but
at the house
of the fanged

and grim
aced floop,
said ploop —

with purse
less lipless
lips reminiscent

of poop ... /
... removes
its ghostish

eye of mottled
head from scope —
looks yonder

to the other
livid side of
the livelong

room — to
wards its conic
onlookers —

who’ve all but
not yet un-lived
in this expanse-

expense- ive
room each
once called

living / they
tick-guffaw
like purloined

hearth-ridden
seahorses soon
enflamed : a life

less opera once a
wash in well-ton
icked follicules . . .

mmcmlxxxix

Huh? Huh!


I love language

and linguine!

....Ooh!  Lasagne!

mmcmlxxxviii

butt butt buttAH!*

     i know u r butt whut um i?
                 —attributed to a mr. u. r. butt (whose biography is otherwise bare)

scuttlebutt
buttscotcher
beach butt

nutterbutt
butterboat
butch butt

butt much?
ball butter
butt baller

butt breast
boxbutter
butt cruncher

easy butt
peasy butt
butt blotter

robot butt
butt robuste
butts or bust!

*that’s of course a chicken butt

mmcmlxxxvii

Quar&c.

i stare at
a carrot
for an hour

blah blah
bee bim bop
beeboop de boop

mmcmlxxxvi

my heart
is not art

my mind
is a line

that tra-
vels one-

dimens-
ionally

to a can-
vas, a

page,
either

virtual
or real,

not to
steal

yours
(art or

heart),
but to

seal my-
self into

an enve-
lope so

that may-
be I be-

gin to
breathe.

mmcmlxxxv

nocturne

i’m not a
colonel i’m
a tramp. i’m
not ethereal i’m
eternal (if wishes
were ... ) ....

i’m not di
agonal i’m...
not... diurnal?
my arse
nal is not
a triumph!
it’s an
umph!

where i lie
i lay (okay,
i’m in a
lair where
there’s not
even a ray.)
(there might
actually be
a ray.)!

it’s just
another day
in a dreary
series of
soul-
sucking
flesh-eat-
ing...oops!

okay, okay.
it’s the
thick of
an even
darker
night
and

i am not
octagonal
i’m noc
turnal. i am
not a sphynx
i’m not
even the least
bit primeval.

i’m just
a run-of-the-
mill, blood-
and-gore
vampire
(coff! coff!
-in!).

i might
be less
entertaining
than you are
a square meal,
but here’s
the real deal:

take me
as you
want me.
i’m pretty
sure i’ll
always be
just as glad
to have
you any
way.

mmcmlxxxiv

Elf Nymph Faery

Black hole sun spins
out of control, so much
so that I get up and go,
walk out, not into an
apocalyptic vortex,
but a gorgeous mid-
spring afternoon.

Sometimes it’s
hard not to be in love
during a pandemic
(he checks his watch)
on a Thursday or a
Saturday (he’s sure
of it!) or a...Thursday.

The Great White North’s
got a coin with the face
of a queen who’s not
really a queen but a pagan
trifecta nonetheless.
Some have taken to

spitting on her face,
invective to what’s
been told’ll cure
the world’s malaise.
One can never be sure which
side of the brook these codgers’

tales got spun, but no matter.
Here we are now at the
very tail end of a horse
of another name only
to be found blinking blankly
at each low-life pedestrian’s

cure. But what’ll sure cure
the face of Mary of the Patty
of a horse? Well of course
Mary’s no dummy like
the faces of the codgers
of many a brook. She turns

to the Tin Man for a bit of
his Orl. He stares back
with the constipated
face of an eloquently
august dummy.

mmcmlxxxiii

Here’s What I Used to Do

He’s got the whole
whirled in his hands.
A stomach pump
full of vitamins
(berry berry bad
beetamins, which
shows up here as a
quote from Neil Simon’s
female version of The Odd Couple,
which leads me on a wild goose
chase all the way to the
plot of 1997’s ill-
fated Batman & Robin,
in which Poison Ivy
is then able to contact
Robin once more; she 
kisses him...but fails to
kill him due to Robin
wearing rubber lips[...
all these years yearning
for the arrival of the 
ultimate sidekick and
he’d been here
all along?!?  for, as he
says...] rubber lips are
immune to her charms.)
Voiding, in one fell 
swoop:  a) nostalgia;
b) any need to hit the
snooze button ever
again; c) I can’t go
on, I must go on; and 
d) to misquote Samuel
Beckett.

mmcmlxxxii

I throw a naked eagle in your throat.
                               —Jack Spicer

wake up it’s
time for a
day! when
the blips on
your calendar
seem incon
sequential
(out of se
quence) i
have an i
dea (let’s
put on a
show!). the
dream of
television.
months of
mouthing
the name
of a novel
(i’ve never
read, by mi
lan kundera) i
dea can’t
unbreak the
bank that isn’t
even there (and
you can bank
on that!). a
thousand ex
clamation
points
borne of
robert
ludlum’s
tundra can’t
quash a sing
le perfectly
good feeling.
at a time like
this (a knuck
le sandwich —
thud!), an hour
is a couple
dozen days
that are laid
open like
a can of
freshly
sanded
tuna.

mmcmlxxxi

adventure bridge

testing, testing, 1,
2, 3, 4. five. 1, 2, 3.
4, five. that was.

that was really a
fantastic choice,
mister marvelous.

it was almost an
adventure bridge
leading us assuredly

to the next level.
it was this big fluffy
cloud in the shape

of a giant lemming—
and it’s got a silver
lining which, if we

chase in our electric
automobile all the way
to albuquerque (and we

do!) we’ll find that
it not only sparkles but
glows in the dark!

it’s midnight in
albuquerque now
and i am having

an epiphany a
catharsis an
aha moment a

breakthrough
that makes it
so obvious to me

how true this
too good that
you are to me

cannot con-
ceivably be.
but even a

dream is okay
with me. so long
as not until after

which do the
walls come
down with a

mighty tumb
ling crash
which nothing

falls through
not even the
other shoe;

the very same
shoe, which, when
on the other foot

is tingling with
unwalkable
sleep having

just awoken from
the sweetest most
floaty of dreams.

but because i
am used to this
by now i’ve got it

and i didn’t
even forget to
stretch it to its

limit to milk
it for as long
as is humanly

and humane
ly impossible.
so. we part

ways in
the desert
do not look

back i owe
you my life
my deepest

thank you
(you may
say it’s ver

boten but i
must not say
so). therefore

my sweet in
delible love
i bid you not

only a fond
adieu, but
I bid it

most ost
entatious
my raging

audacious
and not
barely

audible
[achoo!!]
apercu.

mmcmlxxx

fact vs. fiction

i started a letter to martha
midway down market street
this afternoon, while rem-
embering the sequestered
and how my best friend
would say to me (later
in the day): rest assured,
i love to nap. the graffiti
i passed was no longer
the headache that i had
wished away last night
and the night before
last. it wasn’t even
my headache. but then,
how did i get here in
the first place? did
i jump into this rabbit-
hole voluntarily? i do
get side-tracked when
my head is abuzz,
the synapses seem-
ingly snapping away
at my dreams with
their tiny glimmering
fangs. so greedy!
the milk was good
enough for the cereal
this morning (hallelujah,
he types to me — as
always thoughtful and
deliberate — while won-
dering whether it’s
chocolate or straw-
berry flavored, the
milk for which we are
rejoicing...perhaps? i’m
so trying to get inside of
his maneuvering ticks!).
deliberately thoughtful is
something someone like
me can only aspire to
(is this really true? i
can’t help but
figure. also, be-
ing thoughtfully del-
iberate. none of these
are the same thing at
all. and that makes me
love graffiti even more.
or at least enough to dis-
tract me into stopping
and snapping at it with
my little monster — no
offense). i get side-
tracked easily.
dear bff, do not
be alarmed by the
giant-sized laugh-
out-loud emoji
standing next
to me like my
protector, like
my guardian angel.
statistical data
have revealed that
he is none other
than my bff!
but i certainly
didn’t need
to squash any
statistics to be
well aware
of that!

mmcmlxxix

crisis

here is just one example:

   mister huffalumpagus [sp?]

   where’s my hassendfeffer?

   missus huffalumpagus [sp?]

   hot diggity dawg!

   higgledy-piggledy!

   hocus-pocus!

   hot dog!

you can go ahead and scratch this one on the face.

mmcmlxxviii

The Running Nose

For fear
of being
pickled
by a
pecker,
the nose
stayed
home.

mmcmlxxvii

murder, mayhem, some sick plot
at which to throw up,
ralph!! time passes. the
velociraptors wake us up. help?!
in love is
no place to be at a time like this!

mmcmlxxvi

Probably
who you
say you
are is
mostly
every-
one.
While
some
do, most
people
never
add that
part to
them-
selves.
Admit-
ting the
fault that
is yours
isn’t half
the battle,
but own-
ing up to
one is sub-
tracted up-
on self. Hon-
ing that down
inside even
your great-
est others
is nothing
about vul-
nerability.
It is quite
simply
about
the
truth.
Which,
in all, is
nothing
but a
hole.

mmcmlxxv

Schizo · Mobilé

Gesundheit ¡¡