Freewrite Entries Week 8

Entry 1:
I'm starting to have a brain fart- a bad start? i wonder if my mind is empty, have we said all there is to say? same worry of every worry wart who writes a word or six million a year, letters only twenty six to choose from, i write all my letters from them, i don't care how many words you say we've got because we've only got twenty six shapes that matter, twenty six responsible for everything we do, say, see, a bird or war, dad or mother, does it matter what we write if we can only write so much, nothing matters without math, 1+1 is Two, three letters later, what kind of math are we talking? i remember when i loved that boy (same as two) and our teacher with the cankles let her fat (same as two) dangle over sock ends and we all laughed all day because she was gross. but gross is five letters, one more than love, love one more than boy but same as girl, so who matters more? more is better if conditions are right, we like more goodness but i like more salt on everything. they tell me not to count the lines, that will just fuck you up but the thing is the only way i understand what i do is through the one thing i can't more than anything. when i add letter to letter to form a word like miss i make millions of one plus one, language from letter, and you are all missing my point. on skin, my fake paper, i write the two letters that make up all of you and in purple ink, i forge my own alphabet.

Entry 2: Actually... Rich wrote something in his junkyard this week regarding a urinal and unborn children... "Wouldn't it technically be the life of your unborn child that is in your hands? Thinking of it this way, what does your life being in your hands mean? Think about it." So this is kind of riffed off that idea. Can you riff an idea? Does that make sense?

Life is in your hands, she says,
first grade teachers' seminar and i think
how this same lady slept in my hotel room
two nights in a row now, this woman like Ceberus,
delicate when sleeping, dangerous when awake
calling upon life from the bellows of her groin,
tempted and taken to me like no woman
ever has before. I'm not charming but she came
back with me, followed me like a baby
after music, to lay me in thirty dollar
per night sea horse sheets stained
with dead babies or would have beens
if you're an optimist, steal the covers,
drink my three dollar gas station wine,
and put her life in my hands instead
of how it usually goes, me alone with Alex
Trebec and his temporary desciples, 7:30
every night for years now, eating a cardboard
diet and watching something like life
fail over and over again in my small hands.
The words hang from her mouth like drool
as she catches my glare, unimpressed
and bored at the thought of whatever
we've done or what i haven't done
right because i am ascribed inferior
not by the Bible but a bigger Truth:
women cry because they have already won.
Ceberus had three heads, and I only have two.