This is not the void, this never is. Tom says he read an article about bees, did you know bees are conscious, I tell him I knew when I was four years old, come on man. Coconut oil handjobs.
Wet heat, blurred stars. Queen Ann's Lace under the window swaying in light breezes. On the back porch listening to thunder, our valley a resonant drum.
The neighbors' mother dies, they don't seem too sad, maybe it's different when you take Heaven literally. The cosmos don't belong to us, sometimes the poems write themselves. The clarinet player keeping it all secret.
Listening to Lil Wayne. Everything I can tell you about God, the self, love, the world and the body et cetera Emily Dickinson already told you. He asks are you ready to get better, the answer is not what you think.
Losing playing chess with Jeremiah still a kind of winning. Insomnia, trauma, this and that, the turtles say shut up and listen to our story now. Many Christs nodding on many crosses on the many hills of which psychology is merely the latest.
In a nightmare another door I'm not supposed to open which of course I open. Everyone leaves for the party but me, I don't want to go to the party but I don't want to be alone either, we agree it's my problem but I wonder sometimes if there's another way to see it. Oh so we are angels now, now we are motherless gods.
Teachers who were scared of me and didn't face their fear, I forgive you. Blessings trickling through nineteenth century faucets.