August 2003! A spree, and the W.A.P
another month of you and possibly me
W.A.P stands for wild animal park, if you don't remember-
the way you forgot to count the months till November.
When we shared a bed, in the blistering heat--
You ignored those new blisters all over my feet-
barking, tired from walking alone.
Choking, dehydrated, yet chilled to the bone-
my car overheating no insurance, registration
now I have to wait for the train at your station.
there is a sea here
it's here every year
dear, it catches every tear
it drifts too far and little too near
it's sullen, and blue,
and it whispers "I do-"
"Hey, whatdya say...
Could ya Stay, Stay, Stay?
maybe we could make it for a day."
Maybe we could make it.
I guess in the mean time we'll just have to fake it.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...