Holy Motha Freakin Gosh

I hate this fucking phone. I love this women sitting next to singing along with Diana Ross. "I'm crazy to think you are all mine As long as the sun continues to shine There's a place in my heart for you That's the bottom line." A week. Pages. Scenes. Words. Memory. Age. Tired. Fried. Brain. Click. Yes. Action. Meaning. Feeling. Travel. Lug. Early. Pray. Stretch. Strength. Words. Flow. Yes. Walk. Coffee, Black Snack. Twain. Sign. Bathroom key. Hello. Beginning. Small laughs. Scene. Silence. Scene. Just words. Thank you. No, thank... you. Fuck! Question. Purpose? Moving. Done. Amateur. Train. Text. Leaving. Bye! Suitcase. Lug. Bus. Harlem. Home? Word. Roomie. Swoon. Doing? Going. Maybe. Bus. Something? Yelp. Coffee. Sandwich. Here. Broken glass. Help. Better. Words. Phone. I love this fucking phone.

Red birds against a green backdrop. Just on the hill, 'Cross the road. The birds that sing are as many as there are stars. I want satiation. I want new. New skin. New saliva. I want it all over me. Messy. It smells and tastes so good; Because it is new. It is masculine and earthy and unclean. I want, To glance at you. Follow you. Fuck your brains out, Clean you off and walk away from you In a rush. As if, I never stopped walking. If I am balding, If I am monogamous If I am defined by anything I am able to breathe into the infinity of life. The dust of stars And the depth of water The height of air The pestle and mortar. I am that native, That song, That sings. I am gracious. And generous. I am kings, And queens. I am alive! I am more. I am.