Blogger Droid, sounds so funny, like a future human-imagined planetary conglomerate clusterfuck. Free my mind, indeed. It's the eve of the eve, like eye for an eye, but even more enduring. Why does it have to be so distasteful to me? Why am I so rarefied and fatalistic and artistic. An aesthetic. A hedonist. A masochist. A sadist. In a world that just wants to see those types pay heavily, over and over again. Earthquake, tsunami, nuclear meltdown, oh my! Not the first to crack that coconut, I'm sure, many classless before and a good wicked lot this way will come. Before, during, and after; fun with prepositions, reckless disregard for punctuation!! Alienated everyone; blister in the sun. Goddamn, she ocd just like us. My crazy child, italicize where you see fir. I will always have an affinity for and a solidarity with those who have gray matter blackholes. And disco. And tramp(oline)s. Is this poetry? I'm just trying to escape the event horizon and here is no iambic pentameter or syllabic tedium, just careless, strategic ellipses and other intellectual mental tics. And confessions. Jamaica, why are you so far away? And why do we yell at the injured out of anger at them for making us feel weak and impotent and vulnerable. "You are listening to dance." I love it! An imagination as big as the ocean in yours, seems so much and we so mighty tiny. In love: we come in peace, leave in pieces, limping into that bathroom, leaving that euphoria; so that we may collect ourself. Scores and updates; losses and misprints. Why is it that we can't be bothered with truth? Like some kind of innate collective subconscious fear, like we have of snakes. So long, last call for meta, ladies and gentleman may I have your attention please? In T -10 we are colliding with reality and we suspect this may be a turbulent re-entry.

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Oh lordy, take me take me, ocean and husband, and writing, too, because I think if I crunch one more number or do one meaningless, utterly useless, bullshit discounted cash flow, I might die. I need freedom, I can taste it, from the cell(ular) block of my brain, and just need the haptic happenstance, with you, with the breeze, with warmth and with salty air. I get so fucking crazy, you know, compartmentalizing, throwing every good bit of me away, for what? Corporate waste? I need something else. This job is my undoing. I was built for another era. I send a postscript on every paper I write, my desperation accelerating, but she just says, "well-written" or "nice work". I don't need a smiley face sticker, or the stamps before them; I need advice Lady, on how to do it, won't you champion me? Take my message down the right channels and take pity on me? I need to be a fussy writer with multiple residences. I need him in another life, in all lives, but I'm grateful he's at least in the one. I can't even look directly at him sometimes like fear of the sun, that blinding burn, total annihilation, in my love, My Love. We never hate each other ever, not even a little, and every fight or sleight is made magnitudes more manageable with the fact known by every fiber and ligament and humor in my body that we will get over it, that I can't hate someone with a face like that, that a fleeting gulf is not a sign of impending undoing because we are still standing together, on the same side, just like we always are; and that he is mine. Whoa. Wow. I love you.

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