why are you so screwed up? you just smash my impeccable timing to pieces and i look like a fool, and yes, i may be that one that doth know he is. or perhaps not, because of that strange bee-fruit flying down from that cool green weeping tree. it cries and i hug it so it will feel better. and then you cry and i can't hug you because i'm not sure that i can make anything better for you. you with the summer water hot bliss attitude, "everything is okay, don't touch me or my pride will shatter like i ruined your timing." and so i stay away distancing myself so far as i can go and eventually run into warm tan pleasantly squishing squeezing liberalness that bites into apples as if they truly were faces and he's afraid of hurting them. so we melt in and out and on top of one another oozing with that digustingly beautiful wet happiness, like the kind that makes you want to just die and live forever swimming in the moist dirt with the earthworms and the shiny black and red beetle crawling around in the soft brownness and it's at that point that you realize you have nothing to complain about, and if there is, it doen't matter, it's so insignificant, you just can't because everything, you now know, is really alright and the drowning glittering earth is nothing but a bunch of black and red beetles shining and crawing in some vast deep pile of earth packed tightly and securely and immensly into a ball, and you creep with those earthworms and lick the salty crispness of the brown, happy and just alright.







don't touch me, your hands feel like salad tongs