Pardon Our Process

the nausea comes over me still.

when i’m leaning over the sink.
as i sit down in my room typing nonsense.
and drawing pictures of nothing, and nobody.

it washes over me, threatening to come spewing out.
but it doesn’t. and i keep doing what i’m doing.
it comes out my fingers, it comes out my throat.
it spreads like a virus into my computer,
smears like mucous onto the pages of tiny notebooks.
it finds its way around, here and there. everywhere



i’m really excited about this new project. trying to learn about where i come from; stuff you can’t find in books. things other people may not have related yet. maybe these are secret thoughts nobody has the guts to think anymore. things like, oh i don’t know. you know.

yadda yadda