16/31

I will yodel and climb and plant a flag and hunt for the village and milk the goats for my neighbors.

but first, let me put on my pants.

15/31

how many ways are there?
to stand and to sing and to
exhume the skeleton ships that
have been french kissing the clams?
how many ways are there to bring in breath
and to face west 'til the lord comes?
how many rules for the moon?
how few times can we count sitting,
swaying alone?
how many kinds of strings
are there that world can boast?
how many rules for my hands?
how many ways are there?
to live and to fuck and to die?

14/31: an accidental poem. an edited email about surgery

Here is exactly why I'm so nervous:
because I might die.
I don't know what that would mean if I did.
Or what if I don't die? but my body throws me in a coma
and instead, I'm stuck between the walls?

I don't have a living will. I should.
I really really should.
I think it would read:
"[He] gets to decide everything. Just let him. Don't fight him.
[They] have every right to dead me and my items and all my love."

So, there you have it.
I'm anxious that I'm going to die.

And that's the long and short of it.

13/31

Walk those lines like a towpath
to the river that washed my sins. Didn’t we have a time when we rubbed mud on them?
Not all, just the ones that burn with air.

Bang those woodblocks, get a rhythm.
How many times did the mountains fall down?