pawprint art

sometimes ill write poetry and think "wait this reference is so vague and only makes sense to me with my own lived experiences... i should change it so more people understand" and then i think What The Fuck Am I Talking About and i make it vaguer. what am i? a brand? am i trying to appeal to general audiences or write about autism through a furry lense?

and sometimes ill use a word and think "is this word appropiate for the context or should i reel it back?" and then i know i shouldnt reel it back

every word has thought put into it, as is the nature of poetry . lines like "scorn of groomed sensibilities", "reel it down the well when we both arent looking" and "roughly the size of [HORNED MAMMAL]" are all intentional choices that i revised over and over

every poem i write i like more than the last one. the first one linked is my current favourite as it is my most recent. its technically titled Jim

i hope the anonymous person who sent the "i used to live in your house. i'm drunk in boston and it's the only address i know. happy holidays" postcard is aware that they wrote my favourite poem

So last month I got hit by a car and died right. Which I didn't initially realize until I watched some guy haul my body into his pickup and drive off. Which, being that it's deep in rural Michigan, I assume means my body will make some venison jerky and maybe some wall decoration, and I'll be resigned to being one of hundreds of deer ghosts floating around Saginaw, which is w/e. But then I find out the guy works at a taxidermy shop or something, and he's actually pretty good at stuffing and mounting deer carcasses, which I come to find out when I find myself face to face with my old body in the shop window. So naturally, I figure since ghosts need to possess something to interact with the living world and etc etc etc the most logical thing to do is to possess my own body, since it's basically a statue of myself. And a little surprisingly, it actually fits like a glove. Like, since it's my body, it feels like stepping right back into place. So I get out of town and back to my herd, eventually. And that's where the trouble starts coming into it, because after I get settled again, I don't know how to explain to everyone else what feels so weird. Like since I can move my body and do everything I used to do, it's functionally the same, like nothing happened. Or it SHOULD be, so I don't know how to explain how it's NOT. But it's just hard to explain it to someone who's never been hit by a truck I guess