sweet little birds on my porch waiting out the rain, and the fan on the processor distracts me again, i am frustration blood built up between storm windows in eyes i want to scream and leave i want a concrete womb or a mountain top i will send you love by telegraph, where is my calm? what is this wreck of distraction always craving a line that would make him sick crippled wasted mentally disabled gushing pustules of rotten stinking emotions.