too sleepy for thinking too tired
to sleep. i left my parents' house
along the slash of my father's
handwriting. the basket
of my mother's worry. i set off
to the world beholden
to my imminent disaster.

and only made it Here.

now cold in the hole of this
cliffsitting cabin.
the trailworn edge of the world.
being Here is like being anywhere:
too many feet and too little blanket.
more bullshit erected
at the side of the road.

simply put:
fuck fuck fuck
fuck fuck.
when morning

breaks i will step against
the sun. write my own
selfsame letters.
foot on stone my stone.
in the message i mail
to the present i'll tell them,
don't wait.
the future is certain.
all the songbirds
eloped.