youve got nothin. so u want everythin. badly. things are made of glass, cut yr hands when u try to hold on. even if that. but please. who would give a flyin fuck. if u put everythin into each word as though the elision of a letter a syllable a word wd fit thick leather gloves on both yr bloodied hands. still bleedin. as if if u cd feel the smooth kidskin linin. as if that wd stop the bleedin. as if u can accelerate scabbin turn wounds into scars w/out anyone seein. as if were supermen putting on capes in steamin noo yawk alleys. please. no one gives. the fuck flyin. so we must. it was great it wasnt all we had. when we cd go for a walk when touchthesky told us it was too cold to go outside. when everythin was all i remembered it to be. and do u remember when we sat on the green bench in bondi. watchin the micropigeons of saltwater licks fly horizontal across our face hit us on the cheek then we turn the other and let them hit us flush in the face ? yes we remember. though we hv forgotten the reason why we shd. yes wed sit. wed sit and cross our legs for warmth. and protection from the crowd. everyone in the history of man has always needed protection from the crowd. pull the coarse brown handed down teddy coat over our body the hardcopy the flâneur out of the deep square pocket. wed read of the night peter climbed the coathanger and wonder what it all meant when we didnt know what it meant we went back to the words and tried to work out what happened on the page. small white and heavy like a sword. then we didnt know about duende and everythin was real. and the paintbox had not exploded over our heads and yr hair was black and mine/mind too. wed sit like that for an hour. stealin repose from the pages by restin one thumb between the page we had just read and one we were. still. rest them like a dead pigeon on one knee. wed squint to let more in. the way we read about once since everythin is academic to us and move our head like the lighthouses lamp. slow needless to say. then dont say it. i saw the mans backpack then his toes then his sandals once white now black. the night was black too but what i didnt know. it was just about to get blacker. what i did know somewhere in all the black theres. nothin.