TO CALL YOU BACK; Sweating in clothes I decide to embrace the receding calm and reach out for more sand to pull, sliding into the frothing gulf in chance that there may exist a companion to join me in sifting through the glass bits and foam. The case in my head is bending now when pointed and not numb. The little pieces hug rapidly and call into the larger dark hungry and afraid of being fed another dead meal. The skin is hot; there's air in my eyes. I learned I won't lose my grip; means it'll only lax when broken. I learned it weakens; means I have to grow more blood until not enough. I learned they can leave too; means I can't ever stay. TO FALL THE WHOLE WAY; What is it we are in this great shit, sitting elbow-to-nose under racist patrols getting off at Great Jones and then stopped and then frisked and then kicked in the heat and arrested for pot. Out of men with a father-like charm and a bait and a switch who is looking to coup from the top of the world will it bring the banks home or bring the money back? Look at Brazil. I've eaten, I mean, these clothes were made by slaves so you could say I've eaten, though I believe the ingredients list was mistaken or straight up lies. Which reminds me of the time when I looked in your eyes and you said you'd come back but you didn't show up so I went to Vermont and got bugs in my neck and I spent all my cash so I locked up my bike on the side of the road and then hitched a train back and arrived in New York to try to get rid of it. And got fucked in the ass by a dyke from Connecticut. That's the end of it. DON'T WAIT UP.