my cat's claws are dug sharply into my upper thigh;

my stomach is taut-full with starbellies;

crooked fingers' black black ocean is filling my brain but i am not overly thinking about it;

the name "octavio" is the name of the one who will exist to do good work in the world and be my partner in this lifetime;

immature has all my poetry been, though this is not a poem;

miss johnson is prose, introduction and inspiration and smart people can have permed hair;

chimps and butterflies in soft strokes is all i remember;

my brother's footsteps fall soft on the stairs and nothing to say shudders down my worried spine;

dgr is the heartbroken and beautiful and scared and strong and, extraordinarily, a human;

wishes to do something more come pouring out of a bucket like joe robert's icy bland moon and it fills in the cloud formations and makes the stars seem closer but not more familiar;

hash hash rehash;

george herbert mead;

what we all mean to each other is like you'd think when bodies get bigger their flesh would get tighter and burst, so you'd know how dangerous it is to take up more space than there's room for instead of making your own room;

but instead that skin, it just gives up, it stretches out and you shrivel instead of explode;

so maybe it's worth it to have stripes

so, sad love is calling you, dude. that pine-sol lady is so awesome. i wish she still had her own show.