It is true & I lied to you. I fucked the PayPal poet! I once was a corporation too.
I worried about your wobble & Margaret even called you “the cheese man.” 
I defended you (you are the cheese man). Yes, he is married with a baby. It’s true—

I made you nervous initially & now on buses, you don’t think of me. 
My first had a below average dick & bought a house after our split. 
I do not trust anyone ever at all. 

I’d like a baby with names of my family 
& I vow to never do PayPal in 4 again.

It’s true—this is the post body. I miss you. 
Every year is your best year, so you say. 
I hope you are doing well otherwise. 
I think of everyone all the time.

My mother and many other mothers say they––these men––come back.
I want to fuck them all in tandem (I never do the work).

Nicole & I lounge. She surveys the cards & she knows...
I rate witnessed appendages to her 
& many were honestly above average—I’m shocked!—
I seek size versus remedy.

I can & should combust. PayPal stated I have a praise kink, 
yet they won’t elect me a credit card anymore. I respect neutrality. 
Yes, it’s true—I reach pinnacle within panopticon.

I do not want to be your friend (I do, I do, 
rub my back one more time, lure me back to East Coast brusque, 
wear my many hats, let me feel your laugh—grotesque and silly).

You know who you are! You are here in shoddy memory, 
though my lines invest in you. Payment is in order.

The writer continues to insult. I would like to be very pretty. 
Perhaps I should fictionalize like you. It’s true—fuck Boston. 
I swallow. I backed away from the first kiss.

“We could have had it all,” I say. His eyes bulged. 
He followed me to the club regardless. 
Philadelphia treats you well.

It is true—the company you keep annoys me & are quite mean. I used to be a cunt you liked.

Friends of your friends will read this. Our apartments lack cohesivity 
& our beds both creak. Walter told me to have hope.

Once I fucked on a bed with one pillow. He had psoriasis, I believe. 
He was quite excited. I fuck many balding.

The reading is crisp, the energy shows up mid-summer:
Look for J A N; he’s new. Your career is a mixed bag.

You fail to replicate life to language. 
This is no recycled energy.

Driving from Cosgrove, I tell Emily things are just is. I
do not follow my own monologue. This is decay in logic, keep digging.

I deeply rely on the taxi cab theory. You are my taxi. I wave incessantly. 
I have started screaming in bars lately. I do not like coke & I vow 
to never again slather ket on my gums in Cape Cod. I drink.

I do not dramatize, I carry. I’ve been stronger than I should’ve had to be. 
I wasn’t wrong for wanting more. A barrage waits––

I am early, I stop waiting.