Tuesday, May 15, 2012
today someone asked me about your illness, i said, yes, chronic, just like mine. a sour liver like an orange rind, we both feel it peeling and pushing it's way through. I live in this circle of roll the dice-what happened? do you live here too? there was once a time when men let their mustaches curl, and the women bound their feet with ribbons, so I am not afraid of you. My father told me about all of that, I know more in my little finger than you remember to do upon waking. take a breath, one goes in and one goes out-that's two. take two more. I know how to breathe stop telling me how just because I gasp when I weep. I know how to breathe, I know how to breathe, I know how to breathe. our people are at war, now I know why your side has nukes. I am not afraid of you, My father told me about all of that, but he didn't tell me how to deal with someone like you. you don't remember anything even though you were there. idiot.
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...
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 ...