I'd like to meet:
wut is up my *expletive deleted's* ?!
Books:
"I do not exist,"
we faithfully insist
sailing in our separate ships,
and in each tiny caravel-
tiring of trying, there's a necessary dying
like the horseshoe crab in its proper season sheds its shell
such distance from our friends,
like a scratch across a lens,
made everything look wrong from anywhere we stood
and our paper flew away before we'd left the bay
so half-blind we wrote these songs on sheets of salty wood