I AM NOT HEART BROKEN ENOUGH FOR WRITE! BREAK MY HEART! MY SENTENCES ALL SCRAGGLY/DISsheveled. I HAVE NO FEELINGS. I Watch pretty and I Think 'MMMm - That is nice'. BEAUTY! I used to look at a flower and think HOLY FUCKING SHIT THAT IS A FLOWER! Do you know COLOR like that? Do you know how many megawatts it is in my soul (interrobang) I USED TO LIE IN BED FOR FEAR OF BEAUTY!

AND type type type or sleep dreamy thoughts about someone who wouldn't hold my hand. THAT has nothing to do with flowers. The two thoughts are disjointed. I am ONLY a girl. FLOWERS AND LOVE ARE NOT THE SAME THING. I will tell you how.

I also had a DREAM that I had a gaping sore on my arm. Inner forearm. It had TEETH. No fucking joke. I KNEW IN MY DREAM THAT THIS WAS CANCER. As CANCER spread it would eat my arm, I knew that it would kill me once the mouth had become all of me. I wore long sleeves, and I thought, IN MY DREAM, 'I wish I could tell you that I was dying'. It made me very SAD. But I couldn't tell you, and you started talking about TRIVIAL THINGS THAT ARE NOT cancer AND IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT. There were no flowers in that story.

But when I woke up, I had deep IMPASSIONED memory FOR to create story and DIALOGUE. I knew how to talk but I didn't. Depression in the sunlight is much indistinguishable from UTTER WEARINESS/ WELTSCHMERZ, apathy. THERE IS NO OCEAN TO MAKE problems feel small here. I AM NOT HAPPY/ I AM NOT SAD. The words are big despite the speed at which I hit the keys.
I HAVEN'T BEEN UNHEARTBROKEN IN YEARS. I don't know if this is true, but it feels true. I could write out absurd timelines. BUT THEY ARE NOT POETRY. Poetry is rarely timelines. AND LISTS! Damn! O! lists are even less-so poetry. EVERYONE I HAVE EVER KISSED has nothing to do with flowers. IS a list. ARE the names important? YESmaybe.

  1. ONE
  2. TWO
  3. THREE
  4. FOUR
  5. FIVE
  6. SIX
(the numbers continue to eleven or twelve... FIVE and SIX are not duplicates despite identical names - their eyes were quite different) I CAN'T WRITE ANYTHING I am so apathetic towards dining hall food. The thought SWIMS.

The image weakens your mixed metaphor love affair and YOU WON't tell me about it. I may forgive but I can't see in this mixedup pathetic jumble of unBEAUTIFULLYstrung together words. I USED TO PUT WORDS ON STRINGS FOR RESTITCHING and now they tell me what to buy at store. Big stores. I am cheap the lists are short. AND I AM QUITE FRUGAL WITH FEELING. BUT YOU MUST MAKE ME FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU! My words suffer.

I have no Grammar. No respect for DICTION. Everything is slipping. I GROW SO CLOSE TO ASK FOR YOU TO break my heart. BUT I CRINGE WHEN I EXPECT IT BAND- AIDwise. IF you are subtly violent, I will remember you always in an insipid DEDICATION. BUT MORESO in an ERA of BIOGRAPHICAL nonsense - Where I place ideas and times.


This is a commission for
painters of condemned office buildings,
rusting fire escapes on one side
twisted spines that remind you of dinosaur bones

Here is a call for
photographs of bus stop benches
not the cheesy advertisements,
but the riders, worn out and impatient
fingers wrapped around plastic bags of poverty

Please send me a sculpture based on Winter
an icicle would be too obvious
a variation on potholes would be better

This is a commission for painters of:
every day life
routine people moving in and out of crowds
none of them special, all of them unique.

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