________________________________________________________

I am more tired than America. Lungs dry, but fire in
the soul like a blazing landfield, high fevers in the wind,
nothing is more in control than females. I was told today
that I am a hologram. The sky is tired, the sky is dry,

worse than the Jurassic era, and everyone will soon say
that every city is okay, but rather is filled with terror.
Angry boar-pigs abound, worse than dirty fingernails,
sluggish snails. Thoughts blinking off and on like an arcade

room, like a designist dream despite being deceived by
the design, like "the perfect child" that becomes a victim of
harrassment at nine and then is on trial by the age of twenty-five.
How quickly the tides change! no strings attached to chalk-dust,

the way the flick of a cigarette butt sparks like a "human star."
Everything is possible, as clean as perfume-air, do not let
sadness hold you. Pry it out, pry it out of you, like fragments
from books. Let the door that you enter into be the door that

keeps you from entering into deeper issues. There is nothing
more fruitier than ovaries. There is an embassy of words in
my head. I am too talkative at times like a puppet, and maybe
these are the walls to hide behind, like the mouth of a ventriloquist.