all i own is easy, i would burn it anyway.
    i do not know about return.
    i am too shy to ask.

      Carving out pieces and becoming translucent
      - take it, i don't need it -
      i have a smile for you, the rate is good
      cheap, free, introductory, lifetime.


      stop asking me about my plans
      i don't have the energy to explain
      that i don't have the energy
      to see you     anymore.

    It's like that.
    A sliver, a mote, two hands
    one, all of the words:

Cut clean, my only honest offering. The world constructed is known to me only through pieces and fragments assembled, these perceptions arranged for internal sense only. The things outside I understand on terms that allow me to work within them, lacking the level extended to convey clearly to others. From within with familiarity, an innate allowance to find filter words until they are alone correct arranged. And so I slice forth to letters portions shaken loose, these wrapped and coerced free from holding by my daily interactions. Giving with false words and sentiment intentions would be deceptive against my goals, instead I offer reactions and reflections.

Would you taste a bit
of this tea; we have many hours
to go before our trip ends
and then, once again, you may sleep.
The strong man tells me you've
got muscles underneath that bone--
What did you have to do to impress him?

That's a joke, son.

I can hear on your voicemail--your speaker
is far too loud--that you've been rejected
again. That sucks. Hard part of life.

I would, man. I would give every bit.

You get depressed when you drive through
ritzy neighborhoods, don't you? You know
you'll never be able to have one
of those for your wife and kids--Just one?
She's beautiful. I've seen some ugly
before, heads misshappen and just plain
funky. But that's neither here nor there.
The beautiful home is myth. Every home
has dust in the corners, spiders sneaking in
between the plastic slats of your computer monitor.

True story: once had a rat living in my computer,
fit right through one of those expansion slots without
a cover. Those chips get warm, I imagine. I would.

People ask why I don't write poetry--I can't call
myself a poet, a pretentious ass, talking
about feelings when there's so many more real things
worth talking about that we can all know.

I ain't never been interested in feelings. I got
'em, I'm sure, but I'd drop them all and devote
myself to pain just to make her happy.

You gonna drink that?

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