drunk & half-lit;

I know what this means to you, dear friend. All

of it. I’ve been diligent and working on the

antonyms. Something, something, something

about water and the way it’s everywhere and

nowhere—the all at once of its tug & pull: its

steel reserve. Today is not for resurrection, that

was 74 to 0 days ago. Today is as many pints of

stout as one can tolerate, dirty half-lit poetry, and

Death In Vegas and Pale Saints and a meeting of

the indie rock caucus. I guess I’m degrading again

and loving it. It’s fine, just like its inverse.

And in this next exhibit, light drooping in like

dangling ropes; particular hangs this way and

that. I’m here, and what theme shall we present,

dear friend? Maybe more about water. Its nature

to present as the banging swallower of ships and

shoreline, or the calm, temperate mistress that sips

at your sole and shows her patrol. Isn’t that

humanity with its degrees? Seed head, “Godhead,”

easel-head, dog head: dogged, to coexist through

all the putrid negligence and the, “I could hold your

hand, but I’d rather steal your rings, pawn them

off, build a clock on the moon to give rocks a new

face with new, winding hands.”

And how we stir the biome, add seasoning, shift

the blame, still bland. Add another near-3,000

foot building—proposing a necessary complexity—

that’ll do it. Humanity is but a coaster for time,

catching bulbous droplets off the base of an hourglass

and calling it rain (more about water and its

nourishment).

Who are you with your angel eyes and embellished

purse and studded jeans and stratagem? Looks

good, doesn’t it? That language that bites off the

tongue and speaks through its own frequencies,

freebasing antithesis, and says, “I’m but a

symptom and outcome of the sign of the times,

and two, maybe 300 years of industrialists led to

this, & me, in this studded glory. To show,

show, SHOW.”

We are… quote, unquote. Fill in the blanks.

And here’s the new, old song. It sounds like this:

patter

patter—

Solo.