— it’s for you, yes i mean you, it.
i know i was never real in your eyes, any more than the marbled toad-cat
or the frog with spare parts in the sweet-grass-field neighbor’s garage.
i know your patience like everything its limits
possession is everything, but only ghosts from the otherworlds can really.
still all you didn’t see in me, or outlined me as,
just a bag of numbers — mostly money numbers, because what else even matters actually? — the lobster found a flower woman who could not smell.
when you grind up all the numbers in a blender, the plus and minus signs inflict the blades, the multiplications cross the bouncing double visions divide the lines and in the end you pour quiet (comparatively) into a cup
the results of your offspring efforts: a negative number. Just remember:
you only ever get out what you put in.
if you don’t think the stuff i do is worth money, then i’ll find someplace else to put it away from your eyes
that still never will ever see me for who i am
(a combination of two helices, purely only the stuff of me is from you and the other one you made me with but if you can’t understand than either god has life or you just never bothered to get to know your cocreater)
so just fuck off and leave me alone, will you?
A Seaworthy Frigate 