good morning, Bensonhurst


Start. Drink. Fold yourself over, palms down, spread your fingers, breathe, push, glide, lower, raise, cycle through the stances. A dozen times or more to make a day good.

Scrolling brought me here to another account and attempt at setting myself up for sharing. Do you ever have bursts of energy to collect all the scraps of things you’ve made and put them in a format to later abandon it, forget you even made it?

Do you have fog settled over your brow and what do you do to clear it?

The silver gift I bought myself for my birthday looks at me and asks to be played.

It’s not time yet and I already did today. I’m still on the clacking round, the pounding of mechanisms in patterns of rhythm and character. A droplet from my left eye has escaped. My coffee is empty and I’ve got to use it up before I leave tomorrow.

Today I plan to find myself a folding cart and put all my shit in it to get to Baltimore. I’ve bought things many times because of how I live, out of small bags and leaving pieces everywhere mostly out of forgetfulness. A subconscious paring down of objects I keep collecting and which know they must leave me at some point or else I’ll be weighed down by their numbers.

Oh, the weight…