"he not busy being born is busy dying"

today the world is hiding in its own socks- trying to pull something together out of the deranged molecules scuttling about. and you wonder why this is this and that sometimes is that and is at other times completely at odds with itself. like a hippie wearing brand new shoes, a girl with a shaved head who can't figure out why all of these other girls keep trying to kiss her. and i look for something to consummate me- utterly consume and twist into odd figurines- a flick of the tongue here, a sad lopsided grin there and in between- just someone who can put their arm around me and tell me they'll weather the storm. the uglier we are- the more we try to prove that we aren't, and the more beautiful, the harder it is to be anything but. i wish that i could tie up your eyelashes and guard myself against that fateful stare that totally and completely exterminates what i was going to say in terms of resistance. but your eyes are so blue and those hands feel so much like familiar to me so i can't remember how to shape the word "no". it's time to learn about old men long dead and words that get us confused with people that think and feel and cry when in reality we are the same beings that scrape along the floor of some poison ocean-excreting our old romances in those black bile fumes that we all have to now live in. speed along old man- there's no body to buy here.