Saturday, May 5, 2012
I might even chance to stand on your back, for a lift, I wish my conscience could shirk the endless streaming seeds, inside my head, your breath, so windy, inspired. But, no, I am not who you once were I am forever me. but you don't remember, even though you were there. I see a wrinkle in the corner of each eye, for every smile, a wrinkle in your neck for each nod, a wrinkle in your toes for each step ahead. And at times it seems that is all that separates us, a toe. What is competition? Should we compare notes? Stains in our teeth? lumps in our flesh? woes in our head? Should we compare pricks, in our hearts, a pissing contest of damages.
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 ...