11/6/00, a slightly melancholy day...

Yes I know. I am the girl people worry about because she's too quiet or too loud. You think that because I can stare into space that you will one day find me on the bathroom floor, my throat shrunk up with lye, wanting all the spaces I stare at to shrink up like the tip of a deflating balloon. Well, don't flatter yourself.


I am scooping up death
one tube at a time
stained white thinking
time spent secluded

the soup can full
emptied and filled, time and over
and then the leaves, the inside of
rawhide gloves
the luster color giving off
a spent season and discarded
the smells mingle in my hands

so we kiss death in closed lips
sweeping it up in its brightest display
extinguishing the embers
only to start again


Again he has picked the wrong girl
to love, the fair one whose light locks
he'd been told, draw a certain primate, a specific monkey
that its yellow hue drew them like a bauble
in a golden chalice that once,
some princess drowned to pond depths
to possess

he finds himself catching glances of the dull and earth tone figure
balancing a half glass of water
on her head, thinking no one is watching
so he watches

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