Sunday, May 1, 2011


Probably we won't ever ride an elephant again.
You can come and take notes.
Then you can remember us, remember for us, when we forget.
There is no past where we never lived in the first place.
The second place doesn't count.
Sometimes saying things to get a reaction but whose?
We have to quit doing things just cause they feel good.
We can't keep doing things just not to feel.
There is no good reason to call.
You don't really like any of this.
We don't either.
We have to keep our expectations low.
If we don't the others will help, will do it for us.
We are used to only this.
Sometimes it may seem like to be so much kitsch
The drama of what can only be imagined.
But I didn't really want to tell you.
None of us did.
Not that you really wanted to know
any way.


this is the line
next to which we breathe
words detach
are shed of us
we them
falling on this or the other
side of the line
next to which we breathe
some wafting, no
drifting like the roses
shredded in the heavy rain
that passed last night
when the others slept
red like blood but fragrantly
staining the pavers
lining the space
next to which we breathe
and who the hell does that
kind of thing?
others like our severed limbs
or selves
red like the rose petals
painted with the sun or more
like a magic marker and the smell
bleeding onto the slaughter house
where they fall
the cuts to discard, no one wants
making slick their metallic taste
like nails
lining the surfaces
through which we breathe
without a reason

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houston, tx, United States

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