It's Coming To An End.I hope yourthoughts rise up likebile in your throatwith every word youscream at meand maybe atthe hundredth exponentof your hate you'lltaste your words.and I just hope they taste like blood.
Titulos.you taught me to tearteeth out by the root, break jawstough curriculum.and we cannot waitfor bones to heal, or scratchesbut we keep teaching.
Nothing We Could Do.her name is Georgia & shelives in the corners of bookstoreswhere the coffee drinkers strokegoatees and discuss postmodernthought. she reads music&hears it playing in her head and she tries to breathe in the long notes but chokes on cigarette smoke instead.Georgia lives in Northern lands surroundedby homes that scrape the sky&make it break open for just a little rain.&whenever she lies outside the concretegets in her hair but the water washesit out again and makes her disheveled and confused now.Georgia, she believes in the endof the earth&words of utternonsense making up gorgeousdreams that nobody will everhear
Me.limp fingers retracesmeared ink and crumpled newsprintyou couldn't have known.
Bones.your hipbones stuck outof your skin like beautifulsharp pieces of youyou were all angles, dearand so sharp and harshafter all, that's the way oursomething turned to nothingand there's no way to counthow many times I playfully laid my thumbson the peaks of yourbones for a split secondand dreamed hours later of what wouldhappen if I had let theml i n g e r
Don't Waste Your Time.we were in this city together years ago,clutching each other for bits of warmthand wasting moments on street corners and cemeteries.you don't know enough about me&you never will,because I won't tell you a thing, darling.you smelled like sleet and warmth, and I could have breathed that in forever.and you are good at holding hands but not at kissing.I would have liked to teach you,but we ran out of time.
nine1.be their happy childhood, dippedin coloured glass and wound aroundthe stairwells. be a boat with sailsand a tire swing. be butterfly nets.be monarchs and lilacs in the summertime besummer itself. be desperation anda snare drum, old Beatles songs winding upfrom the floor below, your yellow hair somethingfrom a storybook.2.put your hand inside theirhead and lead them out the backdoor and through the trees.show them the spot whereyou took an axe to the silver eyeof God's skull and boxed up hisbody parts like damp children's clothes.tell them the truth; that you atehis bones and kept his soul ina beer keg. tell them how he didn'tmind, how he was happy to give upand get drunk instead.3.gas them in the shower.4.paint their mouth as redas their memories. paintthem like old blue blanketspiled up on the side of theroad. paint them orangeand covered in blood. paintthem like a small nervousbird, on fire.paint yourself yellow anddon't stop running.5.tell them
To.inhale and exhalehang up your phone, think of me.exhale and inhale.
Mechanical Hands.I.close your eyes and slip into thatsurreal dark that fuels your bonesand keeps them moving when youcan't .breathe. anymore.faces disintegrate into chalk aslollipop girls giggle and dog yourevery step with their limeeyes since you can't escape anywayII.every time you speak you chokebut you can't help it anyway,it's the point of whatever's insideof you, to keep you from screamingout loud to the world that the top floor ofthe earth is sliding slowly down to crushyour throat and the box where your voiceand heart are kept locked up and decaying by the dayIII.maybe your eyes are in there too searching out ofthe barred windows for the birds to share the viewway up high in that elevator room where the panicbutton never worked because you forgot to push it.IV.you forget everything, don't you? you leave thingsabout and you never know what you do with them--and if you were not mad, you could have helped her.if you were not insane, you could have begun torealize that y
future loversnot ordinary confidants, but perfect strangers.
Viennatheir dead never crowdedmy mind;I never lurched beneaththe weight oftoo many bonesthat were not mine:rather, a kindof hesitant symmetrybegan to overtakethe place,to invade the narrow creviceswhere, previously,a doubt had been.I've been wrong,all this time:they are not laying siege.they are waiting forthe inexorable pull of entropyto break mejust enough
love the yarn, love the bestsellerfalling for you in december was a cold fiction, mythrich & beautiful like the frost weighing down the tipof every blade of grass in the mornings, like heather'shouse late at night, bushes swollen thick & obscuringthe street signs, with me scouring evergreen lanefor numbers, waiting for a flicker of the porchlight,yelling her name to find out i had driven aroundevergreen court in stupid sooty circles, down the streetfrom falling with you in december, when i was trailingyou by entire revolutions, when without your name ithought i could hunt down your heart in the dark,when without you i scratched the fable of our loveonto a brick in a house i'll admit i knew wasn't yours.
passive smokingI gave up waiting for you that night,got into bed and lay on a dictionary.I pulled it out and pressed my finger against a word the bore no relevence to you,but I wrote your name beside it anyway because everything has to be related to you in some way.I could have set the room alight that night.I dropped a promise, those cigarettes I said I wouldn't smoke.You never noticed the change in my voice when I was smoking at the other end of the phone.I know every little change in the tone of your voice,like the way your "I love you's" change before you're just about to drift into sleep.I'm blaming you for all my misfortunes,I'm blaming you for the oceanI'm blaming you for the loss of wordsand time and stop lights and aeroplanes.We were always somewhere between apart and togetherAnd I don't know the parts of me that you didn't rip apart.
My Broken MirrorYou are my broken mirrorand once I picked up all your piecesand I once tried to place them all togetherbut now I realize that I like themshattered and sparklingbecause when I cast my image on youyou throw it back to meat one hundred different anglesthat I never would have seenwithout you
Grandma's wild laceFor the little onesGrandma grew lacein her backyard,twining live ivyup the willowsand the sycamores,a spider's snowfall.Stopping to smooththe curtains from our eyes,she flicked the sun inthrough the fly screens.We never noticed the duskbecause the house still smelledof melons and bagelsand matzo ball soup.
Statues in the Dark.I'm lying again.my hips are burning and Ishouldn't have but boy,did I and it felt so BAD.everything is good, though, for theknobby-kneed soccer mom girls whowon't love, because they commit instead.It's not so awful after all, living inthe land of smiles andlittle kids without broken boyson chandeliers and lovely girls withhate in their fingers(I will tear you apart andgrind your bones againstmine but it's just anothernothing because that'show it will always be withyou and we won't seeeach other again)I will lie awake and intertwine your pinky withmine because that's allthat I can bear to touch anymorethey haven't loved andlistened to beautiful liarstell them that they'reflawless yet or heardthose noises in the nightof those who own it.you have a lot to learn and a lot to loseand you're going to hate but you won't LISTENThe night beat you to covering your body in black,and once again you're terrible at ending things.