i hate art. it’s my extra bone. the milk colored one. i think it’s where the loneliness comes from. and yeah, i ******* love art. and by art i mean the thing that makes people want to talk about their dreams to other people that want to talk about their dreams. the dowsing of extra bones by extra bones. i mean, i don’t even know what happened. i wrote about so many things that all meant the same thing, right? extra bone. bread meant love. dog meant those who love. flint meant store what you can, winters are rough inside the snow globe. 2013 rough. 2014. field meant body of dirt and root. bird meant hallowed ***** body of before. snow meant i don’t even what’s mine anymore. and that got me thinking, ya know, about art. did the bone grow in painful? was i born with it? did it feed me the milk of extra bones? was it a language? did it teach me to recognize extra bones in others? why do extra bones feel like home? and i know all of these questions have no answers. schrodinger’s poet pets an ice box. i have a bear and a bathtub and a job and that’s it. i moved from one house next to train tracks to another house next to train tracks. my dog died and i got another dog. when this dog dies i will get another dog. they all know i wanted kids, but the bear is mean. circles swallow wants. and about the art. circles meant so much. corn meant, of my blood. of my blood. the roads meant every road leads to wonderland. spaceship meant some of us get longer to live as animals, and we are beloved to the aliens. ghost meant real ghost, but now it means something else. my hands shook all night last night. the moon was dark. i don’t even know what happened. my whole family thought i was psychic, but they’re mexican. now i think i’m psychic, and i’m collapsing like a star. my hands shook all night, and before, when i said hands i meant fetish. when i said fetish i meant, god, i ******* hate art. this bone is not my bone. it has splinters. it was torn from another’s, and isn’t that cruel? i don’t even know what happened. when i wrote poet i meant i know not what i am or what i do but the words come through like a radio on a beach with three moons and a snake problem. so much gravity. so much pull. so much snake. my hands shake, and i laugh at god. when i wrote god i meant isn’t it obvious. it wasn’t obvious. it still isn’t obvious, and i laugh at god some more. my jokes are bad. my eyes are bad. my bone is bad, milk colored, leaking, confused. nobody likes funerals, but i have so many dresses made for graveyards. i have nine self portraits written by bone. i have hunger, and a loneliness so dogworn it spends its nights circling the same bed over and over. but the ******* art. the extra bone. it’s unsure origin. schrodinger’s poet pets an ice box. i don’t know what’s real. all my gods are in my head.