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Monday, November 28, 2005

if i sat in front of you and held your face in my hands, would you look at me? i mean really really look at me?

if i wore red lipstick and changed my name to roxanne, would you take me dancing? would you carry my money and my ID? would you tease me about my sexy, yet entirely unpractical shoes? would you tangle your fingers in my hair on purpose? would you pull until that split second before it hurts just a little too much?

if it was still summer and the sky was a lusty purple and threatening a pounding july rain, would you still fall asleep with me in the grass? (and a neil young moon would wake us, howling into our bones, into our loins. our feet would tremble on sharp blades, too cold. too cold for this time of year. a thousand knives edges crushed under our steps.)

I have to keep you this close, ribcages clattering together in cynical applause, even if it hurts us in the end, because there's no one else here. I'm waiting for the day that you begin to associate the good with bad. the love with the sickness. me with it. When you start over, my face will be the trigger on your gun. and that finger of yours is beginning to itch on those cold, dry winter days.

(or maybe it's me. and words have no meaning.)

Monday, November 21, 2005

this old guitar 

this is the way it's supposed to be.
you snoring down the hall, and me in the living room, writing a country song in stolen, whispered chords. i sound like a ghost and i like that.
i finally wrote something. it's not finished. it's not perfect. but it's something, so i feel like i've been switched into high gear.

(can i get a hell yeah?)

i just had to embrace everything that was broken.
pull the shards to my lips and smooth all the rough edges with my tongue.
i just had to taste the blood, and then it could fall together. for a second. for three and a half minutes. long enough to write you a country song.
so simple and ambling. i can hear you sleeping. i can hear the hum of the hospital and the rattle of a pill bottle like dry bones. C. Am. G. G7. and suddenly i'm smiling. chucked gently under the chin by someone who knows how all of this ends and will never lie to me. or tell me about how it all went down for someone else, like it will make a difference. my fingers are bruised and stumbling but it feels good. this old guitar with dead strings creaks hollowly in the dark and sounds like an angel to me.

because this is perfect.
you sleeping.
and my inaudible twang climbing the walls like ivy.

Monday, November 14, 2005

every time i hear the water pound against the roof i think of your bed and the smell of your skin.

this weekend was everything that i needed it to be. just productive enough to not screw me, and full of socializing and quality time with a special someone. (a special someone, perhaps, who couldn't stop singing the hamster song this morning? hmmmmmm?)

saturday night and the bedroom party. my vision shakes and you tell me to believe that i'm beautiful. my hands are clammy on my knees and chris justifies even the smallest action. merman titties and the sweet honour? i can't help but laugh. and meeting michael, finally. god. i can't even describe. what a breath of fresh air. reciting poetry and wearing only a towel and a lai. lady lazarus. The peanut-crunching crowd shoves in to see them unwrap me hand and foot. The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies. the next time i see you, i'll look into your eyes and tell you about the slow, sure collapse of language that happens when you aren't even looking, or hearing, or speaking.

(and you. you will work it out. because you have to. because you're beautiful too.)

(who knew that we fit together like little puzzle pieces?)

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----


i wandered in at five in the morning and you were perfect. you didn't mind the time. my eyes. my icy fingers. you made a place for me beside you and warmed me under the covers. you laughed at my shivers and my chatting and loved me. perfectly. only later, out in the sunshine, did i realize how lucky i am. i smiled all day and decorated your apartment with tiny colored christmas lights.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

maybe it was you all along.
maybe what i need can be found in these perfect chemical universes.
shiny like beetles. like jewels held up to my eye.

(do you see? i've made a place here for you and me. where nothing gets in, not even the tiniest thread of light. and sickness is cured with popsicles and love and knowing looks. where my words are smoke, grey and curling into my hair. it's here. in my cupped hands. fingers pressed together so tightly that they shake.)

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