where were these colors in between the sound machine’s latest gasp
every last prayer — intonation and waver — note for note, a rotation of harmony, so much
before, passing them by, the granny forgotten footsteps down winter’s doorstep
interconnected international, if only I could catch my breath long enough to remember this one, good song
"At Chafalaya" really is layered cloth, approaching sun-dappled freeways
where do you go?
I feel cold.
Joan Rivers is on life support.
Random pain shoots out of my left breast. I reek of menthol and quiet desperation.
Should I stay or should I go on a tape recorder stuck on an aging mad man who shirked his public appearance on my account? I’m still stuck on those garlic fries.
It stinks in here.
Fall’s days away.
he falters and forgets, and I vow to walk away, with my books and my voices until he speaks my name, a fountain into the soul on every fragrant note he plays to himself before turning up for the spotlight, where we are impossibly brilliant, my skin is clear, my breasts are smooth, my face as if I never left my 20s, my body opening into his
he said my name, and I walked back
You couldn’t see past your affliction. I used mine to make a god out of you. And, so, neither of us noticed the pain we’d inflicted on each other until the damage was done.
I will carry my fresh wound to the grave.
via The Huffington Post.