text message pen pals

a stranger accidentally text messaged me the other day. this is how it played out. this is 100% from real life.



309: Omg, kate really does get on tom about everything! Its weird...like how she tells him what to do and then tzts kam and tells her what he's doing.
me: omg yr so right tell me more. Tom...tom...tom
309: So, I didn't mean to txt u and i have no idea who u r. Sorry. Awfully odd response tho.
me: Wanna be frenz?
309: Not especially. Who r u?
me: This is your subconscious speaking. LOL.
309: lol. Nice.
me: Think about it, we could be penpals. This could be the next big thing, random text yo area code.
309: haha. R u a boy?
me: Do i sound like a boy?
309: U sound like a creepzilla!
me: I am not a creepzilla i am a human being i deserve my rights u sound like a tween dude.
309: mwahahaha! I'm a lady. 25. U sound like an art fag.
me: I am a 24 yo woman and i am totally an art fag.
309: I knew it! Still wanna be penpals?
me: Um like duh. Who else is gonna listen to you bitch about Tom.
309: tom's my husband's son.
me: How old is he?
309: 10. I was bitching cuz his sister gets on him for all the weird shit he does and its stifling the kid.
me: Maybe the shit he does is really effing weird tho, amirite?
309: He licked the cat's tail. Sure, he's fuckin weird but its a good thing. sure the cats get tired of cleaning themselves all the time.
me: Who hasn't wanted to do that. Although recall the tail's proximity to the asshole, which is at least a psychological concern.
309: Indeed. But hey, its fun as long as its just the tip. Joking...or am i. U know peter, by chance?
me: If course I know peter! ...grl u serious? wtf.
309: this is rachel.
me: Yeah we totally went to high school together!
309: lyzz? U gonna keep me guessing?
me: Don't you have any sense of mystery? 309 covers a huge amount of central illi.
309: you're right...where IS my sense of mystery?
me: You sold your soul to the devil.
309: Hah! U sed it, man!
me: Godspeed.
309: nice talking w ya, lil lady! Take her easy!
me: Likewise. Peace.

profile for Lena's character

>>>>it's very real.


frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment a pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging e.g., promiscuous sex, eating disorders, binge eating, substance abuse, reckless driving recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures, threats or self-injuring behavior such as cutting, interfering with the healing of scars (excoriation) or picking at oneself affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood e.g., intense episodic dysphoria, irritability or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days chronic feelings of emptiness inappropriate anger or difficulty controlling anger e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights transient, stress-related paranoid ideation, delusions or severe dissociative symptoms frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment a pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging e.g., promiscuous sex, eating disorders, binge eating, substance abuse, reckless driving recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures, threats or self-injuring behavior such as cutting, interfering with the healing of scars (excoriation) or picking at oneself affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood e.g., intense episodic dysphoria, irritability or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days chronic feelings of emptiness inappropriate anger or difficulty controlling anger e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights transient, stress-related paranoid ideation, delusions or severe dissociative symptoms frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment a pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging e.g., promiscuous sex, eating disorders, binge eating, substance abuse, reckless driving recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures, threats or self-injuring behavior such as cutting, interfering with the healing of scars (excoriation) or picking at oneself affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood e.g., intense episodic dysphoria, irritability or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days chronic feelings of emptiness inappropriate anger or difficulty controlling anger e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights transient, stress-related paranoid ideation, delusions or severe dissociative symptoms


>>>

Shopping Experience.

>>>

Nicole has gone to the megamart with the intention of purchasing shampoo, but a sale on panties causes Nicole to momentarily prioritize the care of her pubic hair over the blonde curls on her head.

The deal is five pairs for twenty dollars.

Nicole desperately needs panties for two reasons: one, she has been too lazy to do laundry for the past couple days and has been without clean underwear. Right now she wears a summer dress with no panties, but not because she is slutty, necessarily.

Two, Nicole has strategically planned on getting laid exactly a week from now. Her target likes boyshorts even more than thongs, which Nicole thinks is unusual for a man. But boyshorts make the bottom of Nicole's ass look like upside-down cleavage, so she is happy that he likes them, and is also happy boyshorts are part of the underwear sale.

Nicole browses the racks of panties. She decides to purchase smooth cotton pairs in order to contrast the laciness of her garter belt and fishnet stockings. Nicole loves fashion, and she has figured out its only secret: a combination of various textures. This makes her look expensive even if she still has to ask her parents for money from time to time.

Nicole has selected a pair of black shorts and a pair of blue ones when she feels someone tap her on the shoulder. It is an Asian man of medium height with spiked hair and wire-rim glasses.

"Hi, what are you doing?" he asks Nicole.

Nicole is holding the boyshorts in her left hand and her right hand is buried in a pile of g-strings, searching for a size six.

"I am buying underwear," she tells him.

"The reason I came over here is because I thought you looked wealthy. Are you wealthy?"

Nicole looks at the sign above the rack of panties that says "5 for $20." The panties she fantasizes about wearing someday are fifty dollars each.

"No, I am not wealthy," Nicole says.

"Well, you look wealthy. I need to find a wealthy woman because I need someone to help me support the twenty children I've fathered."

Nicole stares at the man. He is probably a few years younger than her - twenty-two or so.

"Are you...are you joking?" she says.

The man looks defeated. "Yes, I was joking. I just wanted to know if you wanted to hang out sometime."

Nicole looks up at the ceiling, which she does every time she is nervous. It makes her eyes looks bigger and sexier but she does not intend that effect.

"Sorry, I am leaving this city soon," she says.

"Oh. Well. Maybe another time."

The man walks away and Nicole is charged with anxiety. "I can't help but think they always think I'm a prostitute," she writes in her diary that night.


>>>

desire lines are retraceable.

this part is inspired by a few things. this post, that is. one is red wine, which I am drinking now; this will become quite obvious. others: real conversations with real people. everyone who shares their honest thoughts with me is inspiration. 

1999. 

"Alethea and Her Cousin"

On a warm spring day eight years ago…almost…the sixteen-year-old virgin Alethea enters the bedroom of her cousin.

Alethea is a Catholic and a devout one at that. She attends mass twice weekly and remains vulnerable to the anachronistic orthodoxies of the institution.

"The church updates itself every four-hundred years or so to only be only a hundred years or so behind the present," Alethea's cousin tells her.

Alethea is also vulnerable to her cousin. He is a year older than her and obviously not Catholic.  Alethea is often startled at the accidental profundity of his thoughts and injures herself at night in maniacal attempts to persuade her hands away from her clitoris. Their bedrooms face each other from across the street. Currently his is dark. Currently Alethea's hands are burnt-up with the remedying effects of boiling water.

"What is this?" Alethea asks herself, holding her raw and shaking hands up to the mirror. 

Of all his parts, Alethea likes her cousin's eyes the most. They are the same blue as the Virgin's shroud. Alethea's eyes are brown like shit so she refuses to meet his gaze, fearful a prolonged connection will soil her immaculate soul. 

"Whose soul?" he cousin asks. "Why do you never look me in the eye, Alethea?"

"I don't know."

"It's me. You know me. It won't hurt you to look at me."

Alethea repeats Matthew 5:28 to herself as she lifts her gaze to meet his. The verse goes something like, "you might as well give up trying, because even just thinking about something bad is enough to damn you." The verse's resonance corresponds inversely to the ever-intensifying blueness of her cousin's eyes. The longer Alethea stares the bluer they get. 

"Oh!" Alethea says laughing. "This is easy!"

Her cousin sighs deeply and shakes his head. He puts his hand behind her head to feel her scalp. He pulls a few of her hairs. Out. "Come back to my house Alethea," he says.

She takes his hand, worn unevenly from the constant plucking of guitar strings, she takes it and finds it fits very evenly into hers, hers still burned from the night before. 

Alethea discovers that sex is like the cigarettes she smokes, the poetry she reads. She never knew she needed it until she had it, and now she cannot exist long without it.

Her cousin requests she takes off her shirt but she removes her panties. He puts his hand on top of her skin and she puts it under. He offers her a kiss; she multiples them, over and over, everywhere. She becomes positively helpless when he compliments her breasts and she hears the Holy Mother screaming in agonizing bliss when he discovers her clitoris. 

"I've never done this before," they say to each other, not knowing exactly what they mean.

* * *

Lena pauses in drafting her story, suddenly unhappy with how happy these teenagers are in this small and, in the whole grand narrative of things, relatively meaningless encounter. She arises from her desk and pours herself a glass of red wine. 

Lena is alone in her house, spare a cat, spare the aquarium of fish it taunts every dawn and dusk. 

"I am so devastatingly lonely," Lena says to herself. She calls her friend Jane only to repeat the sentence. "I'm so devastatingly lonely..." Lena catches a fish from the aquarium and tosses it to her eager tabby. The cat pins the fish between the rug and its paw, waiting for its struggle to subside. Before the fish dies, Lena shoos the cat away and returns the fish the aquarium. It is still alive.

"Come over," Lena says to Jane, who has been telling Lena all about something forgettable for the past several minutes.

"Lena, no."

"It will be quick. You can just lay there. You won't even have to move."

"No, Lena."

"Why not?"

"...I'm not like that."

Lena grips the telephone very tightly, and holds it very thoughtfully, before flinging it across the room. "Neither am I you bitch," she screams. The telephone hits a print of Madame Butterfly Lena has framed and shatters its protective glass. Lena rushes to pour another glass of wine. She pours the next glass of wine on her manuscript.

"Are you happier now, Alethea, you hedonistic bitch."

And Lena, frenzied with envy over a piece of her imagination, grabs the now-red notebook and crams it into her purse. She leaves her house and begins walking towards a tower. A bell tower.

"I'll exorcize you Alethea. You're going to change. You can't have all the fun now. I won't have to live vicariously through you, for your life will become dull and mine so very interesting. I'll have Jane. I'll have my cousin. I'll have my father, real Electra-style. And when I'm not with someone forbidden I'll throw myself on the various inanimate phallic objects that reside in my house. I'll have a fucking banana. Then have a drunken baby with the better end of a wine bottle. You'll be nothing, Alethea, just a child crossing the threshold of a single taboo, a single taboo to my dozens upon dozens."

"You'll be nothing," Lena lies to herself, applying lipstick, readjusting her stockings, putting on a face to face herself less fearfully. 

The gates to the church are locked, however, and Lena is forced to delay her exorcism for twelve horrible fucking hours.

stench. hits.

>>>>>

Your

your strange devotions –

Your strange devotions accelerate

Your strange devotions accelerate, then regulate

my prose,

Aware of your presence, your eyes lessen how I

demonstrate.

A portrait of Lena, she embodies your once-lover,

Who loves another, we love each other. We live

Together, we inhabit an interesting intersection

That compromises in order:

1.)    to mimic

2.)    to play

3.)    too forward

4.)    “touché”

5.)    to help-see, to add-a-layer

6.)    of her, to us

I won’t say anything, but I must.

But I will say this one thing, until I learn to trust:

>>>>

this period was different than the rest.

.

.
I am a child bearing hips and I have them too.
Nothing grew, so everything came out, primordial
goo of my D, the ends of my N, the stray A that
one day might live in another body or two.

.

.

Me, Disappearing

I have lost a part of myself in the last year and a half.

Not feeling, not love, those are always fluctuating, their loss and gain as steady as water lapping the shores of the Cumberland. The same is stress and equally to soothe, equaling the rhythms of desired rest and her will to move. No, no the loss is literal for once.  

To be precise I have lost ten percent of myself.

The internet affords a pictorial trajectory of a body's evolution. The bodies are fellows of the past, some lucky in the present, but past or present most are gaining. Years ago a bone showed, flesh covers it today, flesh and that other word more dimpled and undesired, still filling the first letter with F.

Two-hundred and ten ounces! I say I am trying to dress like a little boy. I start eating flesh and butter; it gets worse. I say I don't know how it happened but I do. I do because I want more gone. More gone than her, as if that would make a difference to anyone other than a slowly disappearing me.

tell me something I don't know.

Lena meets Alice.

No one knew that Lena was violent.

Those naturally inclined to sex are also naturally inclined to violence; I am not sure why the dichotomy exists but it does.

Now Lena had spent her whole life naturally drawn to sex and consequentially gained much attention for her behavior. However, Lena had willfully sacrificed nearly all of this behavior because of this single man from the deep deep south. Her ample emotional energy, therefore, was redirected from the sexual part of her mind to the violent one. In fact these were the only two sides of Lena's mind.

Lena's natural violent tendencies had always been pacified by a consistent stream of lovers. Now her hands held kitchen knives a little tighter and her shoes were all spiked with pointed heels.

At first the change startled her.

She went swimming one night with a group of Canadians she had met at a birthday party. Lena felt there was something different about her interactions with these men but she wasn't sure what had changed.

"We have a surprise for you," one of them said. "Alice."

"Who is Alice" she asked.

"You are going to love her."

"You will get along great."

Lena hated meeting other women. But the night was hot and she had been promised booze and cool water.

When the group arrived at the pool, they told Lena to undress and wait for them by the water while they fetched Alice. Lena had no bathing suit so she wore only a bra and panties. She removed the outer layers of her clothes and wrapped a towel around herself. She waited for the Canadians to return. She closed her eyes and reclined on a beach chair.

"Lena" they said after a few minutes. "We present to you Alice."

Lena opened her eyes. The Canadians were in the pool and a wet sensation overcame Lena's toes.

Lena stood up and the towel around her body slid to the ground. She bent down and picked up the tiny puppy nibbling at her feet.

"Hello Alice" she said.

Lena walked the length of the pool with the puppy in her arms. She felt the eyes of every Canadian following the two bodies.

Lena did not feel sexy.

Lena felt terrifying.

It was at that moment, almost naked by the pool with a puppy in her arms, that Lena realized the men had given her the thing in order to look at her without being frightened. She had been tempered with soft black fuzz and pitiful whimpers. She dropped the puppy on the ground and stared back at the men.

When Lena arrived home that night she scrawled something in ink above her bed.

Lena smiled. The grip on her pen loosened.

gentleLena pt.II: the autobiography

gentleLena pt. I

* * *

Have I ever loved one? Lena thought once. She counted her lovers on  fingers and toes (a few times over.)

Her first lover she most certainly had loved. He was from down the street, not across the ocean.

Yes, I must have loved him I thought. Lena thought this too. I prefer dark hair and he had dark hair. This must be because of his inital influence on my sexual appetite. Such a realization inspired Lena to graph a multi-variable analysis of her lovers.

I must include all of the most important characteristics, I thought. Lena thought this also. She could deduce her true love from statistical pattern. This all made perfect sense to Lena and to me as well.

Lena wrote all of the most important and favorite features of her lovers. Here is her list.

1. agreeable fetishes

(some of Lena's fetishes narcissism and voyerism. She could only feel pleasure by witnessing pleasure. This is why she would do anything to catch a man touching himself.)

2. ability to make her cum

(Lena only came for a partner when it was deserved. Many men do not deserve to see a woman in such an ecstatic state; many women are fools for revealing themselves too soon. By principle Lena had never fabricated an orgasm.)

3. the width of their cock 

(Lena had realized long ago that length mattered little in comparison with this vital feature of the male sex organ. Coincidentally, she learned from a Chilean lover that a woman could, with startling accuracy, estimate the abilities of this organ by the shape of its owners' nose.)

4. a favorite flower

(Her mother had been a florist. A man with an eye for beautiful things could never be faithful but always be trusted.)

5. time spent thinking about them after, during, and before.

(This was difficult, but because Lena lived in her mind as well as her body she had to think about it. Some lovers, she hardly recalled how they felt but she enjoyed to fantasize about them, imposing her own version of the reality that occurred. Others were fantastic but at once forgettable. Lena was looking for a holistic mind-dweller.)

Documentation took much longer than Lena anticipated. She delayed the final result by composing many silly schoolgirl side-competitions, such as softest-to-hardest and fattest-to-thinnest. Finally she tallied the results.

By god, this cannot be, Lena thought. I am in love with Umberto Eco.

another gentleLena

There once was a woman who traveled the world.

However, her adventures abroad afforded her neither sightsee nor souvineer; the mementos of her journeys were all in her mind and her skin.

As a child the woman traveled in books. Away from the sometimes seasons of her rural surroundings she escaped to and from the Occident. She was alone, the omniscient puppeteer to her self-built planet.

Thus, in spite of her solitude, or perhaps because of it, her life was exceedingly full.

As the child grew (her name was Lena), she grew tall and also away from books and into sound. She had read the world and now wanted to hear it. She knew what all of the cities sounded like. She knew what music the people who lived in them made love to.

Lena wanted to make love to the world now. She longed to experience the musical cities but was afraid to leave her own. She felt alone.

Thus, in spite of her solitude, or perhaps because of it, her life was exceedingly dull.

Lena decided to make love to the world then. She made herself beautiful. She looked exotic even though she wasn't. Finding lovers was easy for her. She knew them all already.

Her lovers were from all different places but always artists. She did not want to be an artist. She wanted to love an artist. She took a job at a gallery where she could always be displayed, a living work of art in striped dresses and heeled boots.

One lover was from Italy. He sent her a bouquet of roses every month. She let them die but let him come to her. He liked knee socks. Lena let him put them on her only to take them off.

"Lena," he said. "I want you to marry me."

But Lena hadn't traveled enough.

Another lover was from Russia. Lena pined for him like she had pined for no other. Thinking of his blue eyes made her wet. She got the chills. They followed him from Moscow, he said. The cold called. She never saw him again.

Lena took her Swede lover for a swim in a lake. He dared her to take off her underwear. She held them in her hand above the water and he grabbed them from her. He lost them and she was lost to him and she had to walk back to her house with no panties on under her skirt. He teased her about that. He put his hand under her skirt as they walked and they had to stop walking.

Lena loved each new lover differently. They were all special to her. She became a woman well-traveled. By her mid-20s she had gotten to all of the continents except one, and most continents more than once. She had a frenchman with beautiful hands and an Egyptian who offered to do her taxes. She invited a German to her bed and a Greek into the bathroom at a bar.

Lena's friends learned about the world from airplanes and eating. Lena learned only with her sex. Because she experienced the world so intimately she took the most intimate secrets of the world into her body. Her body showed that. Every day a new man asked her where she was from.

"Are you French?" the cashier said.

"Are you Polish?" the friend-of-a-friend said.

"Where are you from?" they all asked.

Nowhere she replied.

After seven years of this Lena started to confuse Beijing and Budapest. The scents of her lovers became one odiferous mess. She longed to belong to one place for she was Nowhere. Where is my home? she thought. I will make one of these lovers my home. I will settle into one of them.

Lena tried to settle into one but she could never stay in place. Some glacier or the ocean in floated on always called her away. She tried to ignore their calls but that only made everyone more passionate for the gentle Lena.

She stopped sleeping and only ate things that grew on trees. She disappeared into headphones and masturbated indefinitely to a perfect body composed of all her lovers.

She longed to stay even though she had really always stayed. Like a stray dog Lena wandered the globe underneath her bedsheets, which when touched revealed the perpetual wet of the world.

What Happened This Time

Venturing back to my elementary school with a hangglider and half a hill, encountered a depressing carnival; left out the back. Old dance-dates working the booths? Unless you heard my mixtape, I'll leave.


Street-parked my shining silver Lexus SUV. Forgot which one it was. Thankfully the mother and children also leaving the mess pointed it out to me.

"Where are you going?" she asked me.

"To find a mountain to jump off it."

Not wanting to annunciate any suicidal tendencies I motioned to the hang glider in the passenger side.

"Oh, that's something you would do," she responded with an awkward smile, stressing the "would."

Climbed in the car. Astonished to find I had parked facing the wrong direction, thus my SUV faced the bullets of heavy oncoming traffic.

"I will turn around in this nursing home parking lot," I decided.

Parking lots textured more textured than I remember, but manuevering that car wasn't difficult. As I exited I felt the softest touch I've ever felt on my forearm from the passenger.

I jumped in my seat because I hadn't been transporting a passenger.

"You?!"

It was, it was me. A beautiful copy.

"You must be a hallucination," she said.

"A friend!" she said.

I had already decided I was real and she the hallucination, but then again we weren't in the car anymore and the spatial qualifiers of "driver" and "passenger" ceased to help me organize myself.

What was I concerned about? I must have been someone else as I tried to seduce her. Immediately rejected I thought of a new plan.

"No one is going to think you're real! They will see me talking to you and it will just be like I'm talking to myself."

We sat among a group of friends (I guess they were friends) as I talked to myself. "Can you see her?" I yelled. "It's another me!"

No one said anything.

crown on the ground.

"Does this mean anything to you?"

"Nope."

a.) cerulean is my favorite crayola

b.) watched "The Runaways" at the dollar theater

c.) undergraduate infatuation with graph paper

d.) invitation for stranger to draw on body

e.) interior castle - St. Teresa

f.) permanent diversion tactic

g.) jewelerrry. 

what you think?

Toiling the Earth is a Woman's Task

note: incorporation of archaic pronouns resultant of reading John Donne all week. That is it.


When lover's bested distance shutters blind eyes 'nother blink,
When two share one identity, two fuel or feud a link,
'twixt real and not, my lover's prose, my lover's nose,
delights at garden's brink,
where flowers fall to soil and fail to boil impassioned drink.

I love you lover, but what extent pretends communion's peace?
Hearts doth bear the weight they share with crippled past's deceased.
Ease my task, I pray thee ask what cost thy cost to me.
When cost is lost to vision
thy vision is released:

Deleted loves collapsed three-fold on swift-delivered lust,
A jealous thought consumes the plot of twice-devoted trust,
One mistress tends the lilies, one weeds the seeds she's sown,
Yet assign to me the duty,
of admiring what they've grown.

Kim. A Poem.

To a woman enviable: an enumerated critical recapture and corresponding poetic defense. My gift to you, curious pantheist. The present. How sad even here I cannot conquer self-obsession. How very right you are. How very right indeed.



***

Accusations:

1. overrated beauty
2. rude cultural savant
3. pretty bitch



"You are just as beautiful and smart as you think you are. You just grossly overestimate how much we all care."

*****

KIM. A Poem.

If a woman offered me a trade - existence -
I'd trade existence, deliver her assumed
convictions. To a doorstep doomed threshold-
less, nobody opens, therefore nobody
could claim the present. Past lives - you've
had several, I understand - dissolved with
a solution of time and taste. Yet nothing
solved unwritten words - unwritten words
remain unerased.

Woman, I'd bask in the fuzz of your stable
love. Men they leave me, yours stay freely.
My disposition's dark where yours is cheery.
My beauty chokes without depression, my
IQ strands me from convention. As a novelty
I'll be dismissed, whereas you forever
enjoy the gift of...not having people abandon
you when enigmas are lifted.

To reveal what? A baseless woman without
so much as anything to do but
make up lies and
present them true.

You win, Kim. You won.
I'd trade with you.
but you'd shun the
chance to be me. Rather
see me exposed, sans
fancy clothes and pretentious
prose. Deceptive simple

rhyme scheme, a dream I
had was reduced to

no dream.

Should Have Used a Stricture

structures are strictures.

One particular stricture
fixes the allure of lunar
circuit internally, in an
ending sky. The structure
of the sky is red, its
stricture is cell. The
structure of the cell is
single, its stricture is
ahead. Another cell single
in the red sky ahead. To
double the structure cancels
the stricture. To cancel
the stricture requires another
hand, a frigid nozzle today but
a baby tomorrow. A whirring
electric buzz(saw) today and
bundled joy tomorrow. Either
violates the structure and
lifts the stricture. Either
the moon will grow full
again or I won't either.

Pour Michelle

 to Gertrude, from Alice.




The woman feels where I think I might not feel but for her I feel for her I think for her I would admit art reflects life before art rejects life. Pour Michelle.

Ma Belle, we sprouted purple
kale and coffee grounds for
breakfast before the rest of
humanity sounded. But our beauty
cursed, the broken loyalty left
rotting in their universe: un
hombre, la femme, our holistic
devotion to everything them.

Ma Belle, autumn pointed us a
new direction. Apart literally.
But together again. What sin
ignites desire for less than
perfection? What troll claims
more grace? What cow shows
more taste? What goddamn dumb
human trades ideal for infection?

Ma Belle, we blinded companions
by merely existing. Michelle I
fell where you fell yet here we
are atop the zenith planting the
kale and sprouting some coffee
grounds and watching their sad
submergence in mediocrity. From
up here Michelle it looks nice.