N

not your own 
—biographer (pt. 1)

you are writing a letter

the ending that was

already half-written


is half unwritten.

you were born
 on a
roll of mislabeled 
daydots

the universe 
that at last check was
still expanding

contracted again

upon reflection
and in durham
goddammit

objects in every
mirror
reappearing 

and closer now
like a tv
turned off 
and somehow clearer 

with more pixels
refocused and steadily
depixilating

the printed word officially formally and physically ending
 in a procession 
of 3D printers printing 3D printers
 to the sound of 
one hand clapping 
the other weaving baskets and 
the other spitting out code 
and secret decoder
rings like so many sunflower
seeds tobacco stream
the longer you play 
and how the grass and baby teeth grow back again each season to pick teams and compete for
the attention of two
or three dads
on same sides of the same equation 
two or three trains 
derailing simultaneously 
in a cosmic binary
or trinary game of chicken
little leagued into a line of
hand 
slaps 
and good games
baskets full of snacks and frozen juice
boxes.
the rally caps
worked
the rest can wait the thoughts and prayers will eventually testament and eulogize the toasts and thank-you notes 
all on hold
the novel in pictures and one pagers
 rolls of broken
stickers for days
six out of seven boxes somehow 
printed backwards 
and upside down

all except these now’s



you are writing a letter
already 
half unwritten.

dear brooklyn from cameron village,

not your own 
—biographer…

by socasean

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