don’t format it, don’t make it different, make another mess in their inbox to become someone who does something else next — but do the current thing now and get it out of the way

the clock hit (his)12:00pm

i keep my typos lately (ately)

god just released a new afternoon, i said (and i can style this more; dripping with self-awareness and desperation to save myself, i cover the sweet thing; i’m a monster sweating over … my periphery; oh…the angel on my shoulder is here, seeing and forgiving all (that’s nice, hey) — a gentle home that isn’t my home, i can’t afford a real one

i don’t want you to talk to me yet, i said next, to the listener online, the drive-by consumption, the morning dose of sunshine and hellhole our phones are good for every Saturday with nowhere else to go unless it was scheduled or saved in the phone, our Bible and verse, the night-and-day companion, the fire all the time, no sunset, no peace

but i want you to see my cunning, cleverness; yet this is killing me, both it and wanting you to see it and believing this is the way out; my painful life: turning my psyche around at every turn; responsibility for my silly little neural firings, the story of survival, the excuses and reasons proliferating constantly — and this forever, no other life governed under the sun by families, schools, schedules, mothers, elections, nations, wars, televisions; America — who will steer it?

nation, father, hunger for a savior, direction: god, boss, editor, publisher; someone to help — friends are there but i hate who i am when they’re seeing me, when i show them what i actually believe; it’s a wreck; no wonder i’m isolated (this is a bad story i could stop writing; can i? this duologue of speaker and speaker…might only find relief in becoming more addictive media that’s killing us — what’s killing us? Lack of love? This sermon is unnecessary ~ yet i flush it out of the pipe, brown water no one needs, no nourishment…an act of preparation, of practice; i hold your attention beam in my hand knowing you’re a crucial player out on that field, the world around us, both our bodies expiring, being talked to by death herself, that podcast never stopping (hi mom)

nest of confusion; scroll down, there’s more, hell is wide voice is clear; awareness can’t stop forming itself into shapes and syllables, a presence made stone here on the liquid web you can fly around for fun and for free,

i wonder if i’m having fun yet; i hope to close the gap between you and me but i don’t want it enough yet, so i enjoy my breakfast of frustration, insecurity, incapacity and belief (with orange juice and a protein cookie—look mom, i’m eating!) and get back to hacking away the peripherals, the tangled undergrowth that is my reason for not living well