a poem for today, 5 November 2012
[a letter sorted sonnet of ten sentences and its image]
Your voice is like nails on a chalkboard.
Your mileage may vary.
Your track record is all the information anyone needs to know.
Your maximum point of power in your life is now.
Your Hungry Man turkey dinner is finished microwaving.
Your every body cell is a sex cell, all your energy is sex energy.
Your ride is the rolling bomb.
Your psychic abilities aren't needed.
You can call other people sock puppets, or claim that you are a good person all you want.
Do not write anything anymore to the drive you want to recover the data from.
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