Slid my hand down the gentle back of memory,
Entering back into the realm of vile yet given consent,
Weighing the risks of tasting the salt on your lips and knowing that it has already bitten me in the ***,
Feeling sick to my stomach for knowing this is the most adrenaline I've had in my life...

And isn't that sad,
But we'll consider that in late night/early morning mid-April, and not now in hotel sensuality.

It's dawning on me early because my hand is cold
En route back and thinking heavy about everything between here and Independence.

Forward three years on and it's all still a mess.

On the crest of the water and looking at the mainland...
God, I hate the beach, so I'm floating in my bathtub.

Cool climate, no sun...
Most importantly:
No sand, no social interaction.

Appreciate the small things and it'll keep you comfortable,
Or at least farther away from anxiety.

I have a looking glass (because sometimes software is a *****) and you really make me want to stay indoors...

But I have two major cities to see in two weeks
And frankly, I have no time to feel bad about you,
Or for myself.

It's time to start floating and breathing above the water,
Because there are no sharks in my bathtub,
But dozens in my shallow mind,
And it's time to drain the pool—
It's appropriately spring cleaning once again.

Admittedly there's real allure in the way the past doesn't die.

I'm sensing you feel this as well.

I love the way you're playing pious,
Playing dumb,
Playing into my hand,
Making me frustrated.

It's not that important and you know better than to think I'm a perfectionist,

But I like to have you in my column and address book.

It's all for fun, after all.

King Kenny,
Like God on Earth upon mat...
Rising sun in his eyes for rainless morning,
And superkick party, catered and cleaned.

Technician of great finesse,
Not living off technicality,
We pay thanks to our savior
For handing out the wrath.

Brianne will save the bees
In crusade and nothing less,
With sun as holy catalyst,
Her mind is clear as Crystal—
Eyes on the hive,
Ears to the future of ice cold pale urgency.

It's all in your hands,
All of the food and each holy blessing.

Vast scale over the east or midwest...
Don't let me keep you from your breadbasket.

The children are going hungry because I can't stop my rambling...

It's all adding up to the fact that I'm halting production.

This end of the trail is where Christian values drive up social status,
Tell you your friends,
Who not to glance at.

I'm not one for all that purity,
And no one else in my shoes could deny the *** in the air.

Crisp and new,
Shining like the grass in the rain,
Remarkably less discussed.

I feel no need for forgiveness tonight,
Which makes me happier than usual...

Typically, I will count the days with
Input to the last time I felt like I had direction— spend an hour telling Rothko I almost relate.

I admire you, but tonight I hope you're miserable.

My bones went hollow, the mood went heavy,
And the bridge went to ruins...

Can't say I'm surprised.

I'll fall asleep with ambience tonight, and wake to all the correspondence I'm not waiting for,

But I'll be of use to you.

I'll be of use in the North,
So odd to imagine my purpose,
Replaced as I am
Or even just looked over.

It's a downpour,
Yet I'm having the strangest drought,
Feeling like I need more light and far less space,

Who now will be at my sickbed?

Back to when I was so sad, and still am,
Reflecting on Mexico City Blues,
Making time for love and feeling sinful,
Seeing the world turn, and spring coming into view,
Feeling left out when it was the women of my fantasies who were consequential,
Diving into the Ohio River to clear my sinuses and finding only pollution.

Well, the solitude is getting deeper and heavier.

Can't get a **** cheap, meaningless rendezvous, but I know how true dishonest devotion can feel,

And I'm sending in a request for no one's solace or sympathy tonight.

I feel your sermon of restless ambition, I can smell your beer soaked soul, in its elemental glory, on my collar.

Jack Kerouac, in his 94th year, is still bustling and full of life in the retinas of poets and dreamers,

And I won't sell you short,
You're keeping me afloat.