Tuesday, September 16, 2008

My chair is blue and hard. I feel the tiny rivers in it's surface
and my arm is bruised
Inching all the way around the skin puckers and shines.
The hair folicles stand up and curl at the ends.

I slept in my car on the street.
I worked for poor jazz.
I haven't thought like this in a long time..
I had hoped I never would again.