Brothers, In a Sense.

I feel like writing myself into a corner. Trauma skin period piece: the size of a mouse with the weight of a gravestone. Dislike of specific people with regards to their passports and how they talk. Mental masturbation without climax bringing red eyed madness jogging often with presidential candidates and stopping for a slow motion fast food meal. The cash register appears to be malfunctioning as the buttons are greasy and the keys are jagged with the whetstone running quickly like some recent jailbreak. French people having animated conversations while the cold ekes into my arms. Everything seems to be happening together. Looking out the window of the internet I see that Tom Waits has a daughter my age. For some reason this inspires a vague feeling of longing and despair. As if her life must be a testament to my self worth. It's better over there and worse over here. A flash bulb explodes above the bouncers shiny dome of a skull and there you are. Waiting in a line for something that will bring shame and loss into your life. Street drugs lessening the blow and this is why we do them. This is why we let go of the reins fastened to our stampeding panting rueful waking dream. I don't see you out there, lover. I don't see you anywhere, lover. I don't even see the possibility of you. Lover.