this is not my best.

Do you want something more from me?
I want something more from me. Harvesting dust and paint peels and flecks of sawdust into glittering foot soles hardly seems enough. I can read out a tongue twister for you.

Don't tell me what to do.

While they are busy building my furniture at Ottavio's on Main St. in downtown New Rochelle, I am building my little room community of papers and magazines (the type you can get grease spots on) with plenty of electrical wires to power hard drives and printers and speakers aaaaand phone chargers and lamps for light projection

onto my lap
late at night,
though I never figure out what eats up my time.

Am I looking at violent pictures on spaceghetto?
I am watching documentaries on instant which only depress me. The Goebbels one had me thinking that every construct of man presently and furture-thoughtfully represented an extension of the third reich. It was scary for a few moments. "Just like the third reich, huh... huh?" or "I wonder who the minister of propaganda is on this project?"

Well there is no more.

No-
There are a few more things. I'm rewriting some drafts and taping them onto bigger pages that I can put into a binder. I'm sketching a little. I'm failing at adjusting to the kids being 5 and 7.

I might as well get it out in the open. I tried to dye my hair back to brown and the expensive Feria chemicals refused to do their job. I am still red,

and everything I pick out is red also.