[Something of New York is]

     Something of New York is something of New York is something of New York she's moving through the kitchen she's moving, knows the cups, knows her hands, knows the cups and the tearing torn clothes tearing torn tearing torn clothes and skin where clothes would be shouldn't and all the fumblings of something of New York is her waist and pulling her close is her waist is her pulling her close. And the tear of clothes and her hands and the waist of her pants and she breaths in and the waist of her pants and the tear of clothes is New York and she breaths in and the waist of her jeans and we're sliding down hard is New York.

Engulf a system.

Engulf a system.  Remember it so you can adhere to it.  Adhere to it, and engulf it.  With time, everything that comes in will go out, and that system has to save everything.  There need to be tape recorders and file cabinets.  A keyboard's keys should be worn, and muscle memory will be the only thing that lets you know which stroke is which.  There need to be file cabinets, dated and alphabetized.  Never trust a man with a clean desk.  There is too much going on.  Too much in my head these days.  I've saved it up and let it fester and age.  Don't grow old.  I hear all their voices: the curse of listening.  There's nothing original because you all came up with it.  You sat in your cafes with your cigarettes and coffee and your typewriters lubricating everything until it spilled out in shapes and colors no one would appreciate as stern years later.  But you had fun.  You taught and you watched.  You watched the world get sick and old.  "America is old."  It's stories and history are lost to loneliness.  A lonely continent existing before oral tradition and long before anal tradition, shitting America falling off the wagon again.  This is what happens when you hold it in.  This constipation of thought and energy until you want to scream.  You want to fight.  Fight me.  Take me on.  Drop me.  Challenge me.  Rub me to raw and tearing.  I'll fight you because I'd miss you if you were gone.  I've got ideas written on pages of journals and word documents lost in the ether of terabytes.  I've been writing to miss you.  Writing to get over you.  Old loves.  New loves.  Loves that should have been, but got complicated.  Writing to apologize.  Writing to prove myself.  That's what it all is.  Proving myself.  When will it stop?  When will you know me to be just like you, full of passion and power?  I think of you with him now.  Do you still wear that little silk robe?  Do you make him sit in the cold morning air?  When will he be leaving?  When will the next one move in?  I know he's there. And you.  We parted with such harsh emotions and fresh scars.  That emergency room still holds dark words and cold. Believe me.  How can I say I'm sorry?  Just keep trying.  Just keep trying.  There is so much good now I know I can spare some for all.  It just needs to be written down.  Engulf a system.  Remember it so you can adhere to it.

If it's good enough for Jesus...

I want to build this desk.  Right now, carpentry might be my hobby when I start grad school.  I come from a long line of carpenters, and it's only proper that I should continue.  How else will I get good enough to build my own boat?