he is the father of a child stuck in traffic. he is my father finding this out in the middle of trying to be successfully beside himself. he is all muscle. he is every man kissing a trash bag swollen with stork blood. do the lifting. his friends languish in the availability of their art. who are these people, they are sermons, they are the dogvision greys of a bluesy priest. I am yellow in my mother. his mother is his endeavor. he hits a wall he slaps it. endeavors to magnetize his mother’s ******. it pains him. there is a man who writes to himself. people say it is ****. he takes the terrible writing and turns it into a pity none can feel.