maybe i will assemble
a dadaist poem, relay it
to you, via the mailman who
i sometimes pass. maybe i will
go walking down to king street,
with my blue jeans on & dragging
& keeping me warm like nothing else.
maybe i will find new addictions, i
am taken to sewing old fabrics together,
writing letters at the stroke of seven,
witchcraft, oh that would be
even better! this or that or
even that. i do not know,
i am growing stranger by the day,
staying inside, i am afraid
of daylight. or maybe i
am just afraid?

it does not do to dwell on such
frivolities. i have daydreamed about
you dying, about a new kitchen with
red plates, a blackblue car which i
will secretly name 'desire'. this
does not frighten me. the window
is so dusty, my books are so
dusty, my notepad is filled
with musings that i would
never reveal to you.

i need a change, everything is too familiar.