sad calendars ---- your father is dying in celebration we've tortured the room you have set on your bed half-assedly on your pillow for hours my friend you've graced CSPAN in my dreams i wake to cold fronts and telivised assisted suicides which have all been in rotation but you've lost sleep like salmon my boy, diets don't consist of newports, basics, and occational bummed camels if you're lucky cocaine you cut is not the color of his prostate he's in a objectively different columbia he sits in his state map counting both counting, staling not talking not stealing anything Jennings is chanting.. sing-songing.. "your father is dying, he's dying, he's dying" your namessake isn't crying not sobbing on your receiver when you roll in substanced you're a carnival lost in the truths of home is way down the street and the lights and pixels bend, wizz, and leave you in stitches then you are the relaxed just rolling in you are storm fronted pre-blunted and i'm the asshole that breaths loudly, owes money and occationly talks to a straight white God: Who hasn't mentioned a word of your dad concerned with truths you mention, slack soundless with your lips barely: "people... die." still pollution floats in our duplex until you sterilize the tiles and then we drive and all is nothing except the propane smelling man buffing the floor at the grocer and the vices pile in multi-colors in assorted lanes you pick out only the boxes that are yellow it's yellow inside the cavities of the sick and the sick are floating, polluted, sectretly loved mostly immensely his Wall Streets consist of obituaries of the fine moral black men: younger cities numb down to Sleepy Hollow and counting is math like everything and it piles in by-lines and news filling empty thoughts that would have paid off better in other uses even maybe just syringes, you and him both but your bedside flickering red sign is set fast just in case just skipping alwayses you're wiping the cancer off the screen with my old dirty washcloth, that usually nooses in the bathroom.