poem: thinking about yourself too much

here it is about me: ambitious, but with no object — instead a vague spilling-over of what is, crept into dissatisfaction and the feeling— cometh before the tulips but with the bright white light, creeping in — asking and asking. here is it about me: no self-esteem, the roller-coaster man-eater daddy left up and down

gone — nicely, good modern epic but honeymoon flares down with small house eating them alive — a cat would be nice — they are happy — but in taking care of, the fun and cum-dripped misery, the dull one

remains. no social object: easy listening music in dark car, NPR explains something-something it began with silent movies, w/ silence. scales up, low foreboding: i hate you all other women i will wear your skin-suit!

no—mortal sin, confession again, death turned-gearhands, the vaguest hotel-stayer, just turned just wet— yes here I am again, as if to say

here it is about me. please find yourself another soul another face!