on take this quiz & see
u have made a weakling. not just physically. weak-minded, fleshy, obsessed w/ just-life. the turns of a broken screw into a stripped wall make me precious--cannot afford this sort of damage & yet we proceed. from towered books come tumbling only ones failed. these lives are jade, but i carry them like soot in my trousers--new trousers. did u like them? did u find them simple & elegant, broken but not too? do u think my anxiety to touch a 2nd apple klangs at the appropriate tone? does the sound have a posture? does it waft like a bag? i must fit into these trousers, square & claimed. but i don't fit--i disappear. i am nothing if not a vanishing point. the toward-which horizon. that thing which achieves exactly what is due to it (not a penny or a kiss further) & crosses the threshold panting & portends a heart attack & then drops. i haven't been touched in a long while, in that way which curls a back, so please excuse me when ur hand on my knee makes me want to vomit. to drink a diuretic. to throw that apple away. there is no eve in u, u haven't the suffering, is what glides like bullets across my shoulder in the public transit, failing to eat won't crush ur shoulder width, not even enough for that to miss. but never mind. the apple's hit the bin. & i've hit the bin. & this is just a body, weak from being. & before long something strong will eat it.