the lives of animals lodged in my solar plexus. i have to practice breathing. the lives of animals curiously depend on me.

i do not want to go to thanksgiving. i feel like a sacrificial lamb. ridiculous, my dad says from beyond, how do you want your stake? never mind da you're a ghost cook you don't eat much. less than a fruit fly. i prefer not to go to the slaughter i mean the genocide the celebration rather of that which is a step beyond nicety. let us partake in the indigenous land's bounty and the bounty of the animals created for our ingestion. i prefer not i'll say here so as not to offend anyone with knives, not, because of all the animals, who are treated like meat their very lives and then finally, quickly eaten. 

i can't finish a proper sentence. i can't draw a straight line. or a circle. i can't make a collage. i only think of animals. and plants. and rocks (i found a fossil on pebble beach this morn like the one that pierced my forehead at seven). this has nought to do with trump or the celebration of slaughter. it's tangent. 
when i see meat i see animal, when i see meat my solar plexus deflates. breathing, kissing, observing, sentient being. i would rather spend time with you than eat you. there is no comparison really i'm not even that hungry.

maybe i'm just weak in the mind for lack of meat. so be it. beat it. meet it.

anyway i done did a lot of enough bad things, besides eating many animals enough, i smoked enough cancer sticks, i drank liver rivers, to last a life. i'm too full. but a barbarous pressure surrounds me.