Sunday, May 13, 2012
stomp on the girl with cleats, step on her back and break it, she is what wiggles within your spine and saps it of dignity. sometimes strength is in your serenity, when your lips stand up taller than you. the corners of your mouth, the corners of the room, turning up turning over, not wrinkled and falling in. speak with your tongue, and not your teeth. you bite, you bleed me. you don't remember even though you were there. If you're going to be absent-minded, I'd prefer you were absent.
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 ...