Chewing dirt

can’t find any way to start but why should it matter since beginnings don’t really count you can’t add them up they’re just going to fight each other for ascendancy while the girl

hiding in your bathroom keeps vomiting & the men in your garage argue about paychecks & the Latinate chorus-like hum of channel- surfing never explains to

you the huddled breathing shape you didn’t understand in Bolaño though now you can’t forget it & want to cup it in your hands to help or salve or tell its story with

your own pen & ink as if stories you write ever find endings only more wrinkles on what you call your hands did you ever really have hands or just two arms that end in

violence equipped with an accessible inviting style