smoking kief;
margaret atwood lurks
around in my psyche.
I like her there, but it
is much too late and she
is making lots of noise.

my body is full, and soft.
this bothers me.

Aries glares at me from the
face of the moon. She is
impatient, but leaves me be;
i will dance and sweat for
her another day.

she knows i'm bullshitting,
but the only constant is
change, and she knows
that, too.

even the harvest moon
cannot pull me from this
hellish lack of activity.

i blame the cyclical nature
of all that is. the wheel of
fortune spins me upside
down. i sigh, and wait
for the