Untitled(she doesn’t open her eyes when she remembers the poem. she doesn’t want to profane the words with her feelings. )Uncategorized
i miss my daughter. she was with me in the morning. i won’t see her till tuesday.
i don’t want to mess her up. i don’t want anyone to mess her up. i especially don’t want
anyone disappointing her. i told her my new friend is frank. i lied. frank is amanda and amanda is frank. she wanted to know if frank was a woman. i said frank was frank. she said i was lying. i said i wasn’t to protect her. sometimes it’s better not to say anything, not to lie. she’s concerned about my appearance. she wants me to get a haircut and to fix my teeth, one has a hole and two molars are missing. i can’t at the moment fix my teeth. my blood pressure is too high. the dentist won’t work on me.
i told maria grandfather called. she was happy to hear from him. she has been stealing from me. i don’t care about it. i shut down the payments. i contained the problem.
my daughter thinks i should cut my beard. it is longer on the right side than it is on the left. i don’t mind that it’s unbalanced. i observe that leaves in nature are symmetrical. my daughter’s reading a book about a country that wants to keep out foreigners and doesn’t want anyone leaving it. it’s ninth grade level reading and she is going to sixth grade. there are words in it that i don’t know. her teachers say that if there are five words on a page in a book that you don’t understand that it is too advanced and you should read a book that has pages in it with less than five words that are difficult. my daughter and i disagree with the teachers. the more difficult the words there are the more mysterious the book is.
a filmmaker in a documentary recites a five page dylan poem to her friends and patients fucked up by a nervous disease. she’s painfully pretty. she doesn’t open her eyes when she remembers the poem. she doesn’t want to profane the words with her feelings.
i got an orange carhartt t-shirt. a pen leaked on it. i got another one liking how the
orange carhartt t-shirt felt and how it looked. when i put the new orange charhartt t-shirt on. it didn’t feel and look like the orange carhartt shirt with blue pen ink. i took it off without removing my white hat and black glasses and put on a wrinkled unwashed denim shirt. it felt and looked right.
this woman, i’ll call her bobby, is ugly. she has a nice body. i wouldn’t mind using her for sex. she doesn’t want to have sex with me. she wants to attach herself to someone. she is lonely. she probably has family members. they remind her how lonely she is. they remind her of time and justice. you have to kill generations of them to get away from justice and the nuclear dust cloud on the horizon. i spend my weekend nights killing them off, entire generations, to get peace and silence. i discourage family ties. they fuck with my equanimity. they give me heart disease and diarrhea and guilt. amanda laughed at me when i said the family is obsolete. she has close ties. bobby who i can’t use for sex is especially lonely and hard to resist because she has an ugly face. she is dangerous and deliberate. if you let her get close she can really fuck you up with her bullshit. if she finds a way in you will never be able to avoid her. you will pay for it dearly emotionally and financially. she is stubborn and righteous in the way only the ugly and the overlooked can be. i have disorders that i can hide easier than surface bad looks. when someone takes advantage of me because of it. i can be very stubborn and righteous. i don’t go as far as to go to the law. i do consider violence and consequences.