conversations with breath
I dreamed my mother decided to be euthanized at a clinic and the way I helped her achieve her best death was by jerking her off (she was suddenly male). Then I dreamed that a woman came to me in labor, having induced herself with copious amounts of oyster (which I discovered, in Alaska, is like eating a Willy Wonka gobstopper meal where every moment brings an entirely new and incredible flavor). Today, I think about purchasing a backwoods motorcycle for the sheer fact it is simplicity in mechanical form at it’s finest. It’s own alchemy. Tomorrow. How could I possibly predict? The wardrobe I need to be a respectable teacher — who still wears Doc Martens laced to her knees and a penchance for revolt — arrived on my doorstep with a best friend and her most beautiful daughter. Currently, I have inter-dry-wall access to the funniest conversation about porn and video games amidst teenage boys. Earlier, I posted a tantric response to said boys in a questioning thread that showed up on the board in the kitchen. What, pray tell, is the meaning of life except ALL of this magnificence? Tomorrow it will shed again from the mostly lining of my uterus, which ignores the excised fallopian tubes, and then begin to answer itself anew. I will sleep for days and emerge again. You will continue. The moon will finally fill. I gathered seashells, in ecstasy, weathered by stone and sea. Copious numbers. I understand. Am softened by the wave(s).