I name it first

A) Then I write it. If I didn't, why be frightened? Where my eels at?

B) This is my new daily cross to bear. Hey there, Monsieur Bear. It must be hard to be so ursine

(Ursine that's your sign. Ursine that's our sign.
Our bear, up there. Sequester your smellables.)

C)
miasma
of her cigarette
no top on
coquettish
childlike, a foxstar
voice like software

Hello? Where?
I'd like to tell you, Rita.

D) I know where I myself am. Can't say the same
for the boxwear. You know, the stuff you buy in the box and wear?

Oh hell, not hare, I mean, not hear again. I hear my waves becoming oceans becoming words spilling out again. A sixth grade girls poetry. And pretty good for what it is: "My hand spills out the ink from my soul..." etc.

E) The point is I'm going to force myself to do this once a day even if it's really bad (ooh, self-reflection, judgment, not like a judge's judgment (they aren't PEOPLE like we are, they send people to prison, I don't send people to prison, and if I could, I probably wouldn't... I don't want to!)), do I really care what you think? Are we kin? There's that word again. An ancient one, kin. We probably aren't but I probably feel like we could be, or have the same approach to each other, the same feeling in our hearts meaning our throats for each other, I'd kill for you, friend, I'd be killed for you, That's what Mailer meant when he said there was a sniff of murder in real love, the kind you don't want to call love because you know... love and all. Nothing is what it is anymore. I don't have a teddy bear. I miss everyone, all the time. I find happiness, I don't know much about anything.

But must importantly,
I'm not string
and never knit.