I am riddled with 30. The strike of midnight, it eats me, starting at the toes, bare and lively and barely alive, I struggle along a seam. My thoughts hang on the graveside. I wonder if anyone can see this? Thirty has me, she's a cruel contender made up of sinew and string, red rope licorice and DNA, blinds me when I walk with my face in the wind, steps over me like a Chicago pothole; the entire size of an apartment, 30 lives in the laundry room, tumbling over and over until its dry, desiccate and dry.

30 sends mail from Washington State too, it don't leave no line for greetings, it don't whoopdy-whoop the white-prentenders. No flowers for Kristine, no merriness of mirth, or dog on tin roof or nothing. Absolutely nothing. Thirty is the wickedest weapon of the new millenium, nothing so fiercely glum as this- boots won't even fit me, my hands' knuckles is swollen. My socks have finished their last **** verse too. ****, man. 30 is the poison drug. Gator, 30 is Gator with speed and disease. Harmful tremors, shakes, phone                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000­00000000000000000000000000