October feels like warm rust.

October feels like warm rust. I stand back and observe the somber promise of more. It quiets, creates complacency within the journey, moment…almost as inherent optimism.

November, feels foolish, comes. Large dead birds and grey landscapes mix with family and football. Let’s eat a pumpkin?

December, idealized, hardly snow to play upon but utopian nonetheless. Smiles, Sugar, and Sex. Without one, there can’t be Christmas. If not sexy santa, perhaps sexy santa’s helper. Midget porn? Is it expensive? I’m in!

January is bare. I feel seven, wanting to use more fingers when asked my age. Here, the desolate now. Maybe there’s debt for material girls and boys. We look around and have trouble finding anything meaningful. There is no value, only a year of work in front of us. FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK. You kidding? I’m too tired to yell…

This is who I am. This is who I am.

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