2002-09-29 - 3:20 a.m.

my eyes are tired, and dry, and red, and sprouting little pink popping viens....

I'm tired.

my belly is hurting with a ptless sorrow of acid and indigestion.

I'm hungry.

and nauseated.

My head swims with ideas of yesteryear and nowinpresent and tomorrow'scorn

And I wonder if the cosmos will let me listen in on their conversation and not condemn me for eavesdropping on fate

And I ask my self each day when I've sufficiently awaken from a hazy pink flesh stuffy with organs and blood.....

Will it be Wheaties or Chex?

Soy or 2%?

Red or Black?

And in the end I tell my fingernails that they are beautiful and smooth and I suddenly find myself picking at their flaws.... realizing too late and with much pain and rawness that I no longer have fingernails.

Then how in the bloody hell am I suppose to open this can of pop????

My prints have worn away and my numbby little digits play piano only to the drunken disorder of my mind's melodic melodies.

And sooner or later I will copywrite my life's satire...cutting and pasting and saying....

I wrote this somewhere else...

and I loved it.

How wonderful.

Copyright 2002 - 011010

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