I've got no life; up all the time just writing, laboring
like some frazzled madman over a keyboard dense
with illogic. I'm stuck in a land I can't get out of
and someone is talking messages to me. Am I as
nuts as this may seem? Can someone bring me
juice and food? This is hard-core, non-sentimental
Life Studies work - I bring you no fragment just
the whole, entire thing. My luck is in the margins,
where I scribble wandering, broken-hand notes in
a pen which does not write and which only I can see.
And then I realize - I do not live here at all. My
matter-of-fact handle makes me dislike the
contents of every other cup.