i said i'd be dead at twenty-seven.
the truth depends on who's hearing;
anything said to myself is lost.

these things are in black (not blue)
pages and pages, unbound and revised
through ridiculous hidden femininity.

what am i doing with these handfuls?
this must have been the question
on so many tongues. what will happen

now, when did i start revolving
so many faces. there is no project
to take onto my back, nothing
can be realized in four years.

01/16/2008

Posted on 01/16/2008
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