Dear Artaud

Photoshop is taking so long and I'm thinking of you. The remnants of a shattered weed on the road. I am a-thinking about the tassels' purl. What wrongs on the envelope of the mountain? Supine, prone,

the placemats.

Le Blitz

Hello Artaud.

I found you in my links and digress to put up this,
between what I started with you and how now,
without a word to register.

I walk into the room and the sweat. This is the suggestion,
overriding my concern for you, the angle of my jaw
in silence--how it hurts.

I think about who and they are attempting vibrate the silence.

I am not your children.

I don't even know your real name.