the leaves are turning pink.

My love is moving on.

I can't sleep in the same position

anymore because everything slightly hurts.

My joints are a shrill new language. My back

is a long song. Los Angeles is awful

and growing on me.

Damn. I look great in my car.

The streaming stations are fizzing,

are melting into one. Things are

poorly strung together. I'm turning into an expert.

Of course, people try me, but I tell it like it is.

I'm thirty and have been thirty

for many, many years.

My mother comes into my dreams,

still, but she's younger than me now.

This, my friend, is what time does.

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