He was always    un to be    to me.    Un-are    and    un-was.    Un-were    and    un-become.    Un became  
but always    being    he would always    be.    But    being    was always occurring on a back porch of blades
near the wood where the saws were played by the creek boys. And even after New York he said he missed
Missouri. But Missouri did not teach me what it used to teach me. About    being.    Missouri was not
something on    being    it was not. Being    is not always so. Sincerity is not always so. Sometimes the    are the    was    the    were    the    become    and the    became    is    not always the him and the me during out of body fucking, the cat in the next room, realizing authenticity, the petting of a cat, the cognizance of the relativity of perception, infinite memes about cats, actualizing passion, and a cat, questioning epistemology, and the cat, conceiving of a past life, and a cat, or unexpected oral in the morning, and a cat.

No.

Sometimes the    are    the    was    the    were    the    become    and the    became    is    cyber art, windshield washing, harsh grabs of the tits, dick grabbing, drain cleaning, couch cushion vacuuming, timely rimming in a porno, rust on the sidewalk near a drain pipe, a broken pencil, stapling thirty nine packets of fifteen pieces of paper, unclean dildos, the smell of gas from a blown out pilot light, waiting at the dmv, spilt coffee, a broken water main, Kevin Federline, screwing light bulbs, screwing the guy at the bar, squeezing pimples, using power tools, feeding the dogs, cleaning urinals, dating someone from Kansas, driving through Kansas, being catcalled, burping babies, clearing ear wax, burning leg hair, picking at scabs, fetishizing lesbianism, Instagrams of dead birds, things in juxtaposition, moist things, and moist things in juxtaposition, pseudo intellectuals, lint from the dryer, and slow motion twerking.