a tickle and a tease
a build up and release
of what I speak, of course, is a sneeze

So close, so far; so close, so far.
Only four years apart.
And here is a man who has created something that others enjoy,
but he can call his own.
Something easy, something accessible, something simple,
and he's served so many who can so easily take it for granted.
Has he money or merit or formal praise or accolade,
I know not, but fame and fame and fame,
for creating a way, a niche, a salon for the literary minded
to congregate and ventilate,
meditate and salivate,    
indeed* create [and] regurgitate.
Thanks to thee our blessed Eliot York.
Lead on; lead on.

Skin is just tissue and tissue wrapped around body, keeping its contents from going this way and that. (It's also really painful to walk with no barrier between the Earth and the sinew and bones of your feet.) Think of when you see a woman, and your belly just yearns, and you feel like you are going to throw up, like something is actually thrashing inside of you, trying to find escape, or when you're with that women, and that thrashing subsides to manipulation, and organs begin to move of their own accord: lips upon lips, and hips upon hips; beasts ravaging and ravishing until they find escape.

Why do you leave me when I stumble to your doorstep?
Why do you call when you know I am most unavailable?
When ever will we make our rendezvous?
I fear for the day we come crashing together and I find myself all tangled up in you, helpless on a park bench for strangers to pick-pocket me while I am lost and wandering in sweet somnia.