was a needle he never needed.
Disease thrown against the blue backed
sky, still he pleaded, missing matters
of the distorted day, drowned dreams,
dwelling on what withers without steady
consequence, or common sense.
Is it considered courageous when
the sentence was caught, not dealt?
Angry about always being alone, yet
determined to row the wrong way, against
the crest of the wave, the grain of the
timber, spitting into a spiral that comes
toppling, lunging back
every time. The pain progresses, and he
says prefers the paradox of prognosis
to the faux politeness of people.
Every new low fucked with familiar
frequency shapes the foundation for
being or becoming more capable
of living with this disease.
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