Poem and a pic

I found the poetry of a man who sent me an unsolicited dick pic (Pro tip - don't send unsolicited dick pics, but especially don't send unsolicited dick pics if your email leads to everything about your life, including your facebook), and it was very good. He actually sent me a poem AND a dick pic, which was jarring. It was a sexy poem. A very, very good poem. Till suddenly DICK PIC IN YOUR FACE.

Anyways. His poetry was beautiful. I went looking for his biography, curious about the kind of person who sends a piece of their soul along with their proof of concept body art. I found a lot of info about him, the fact that he'd been born on an Oregon reservation, that he'd gone to OSU, that he had a lot of friends who like him but probably didn't get him. I found his website, where'd he'd apparently started publishing other authors work in 2015 or so. It seemed like his life work.

And that got me thinking about what those words mean. Life work. How do you know something is your life work till after you finish it? In my experience, everything is your life work, till it's not. Anything you're even remotely enthused about could be your life work in that moment. But nobody knows that they are going to be working at something for the absolute rest of their lives. That's ridiculous.

Maybe I'm just jealous. Maybe some people actually are that certain. But I think it's bullshit. I treat everything as though it were my life work, and in the moment, it always is.

His dick was actually kind of pretty. Thick and left leaning, dark skinned but light headed.

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