I draw my pale thoughts over my head like a blanket and wonder if the discomfiture ever gets softer on the heart see I've learned why the heart beats against the chest wall, it is a war drum on the front lines of my thoughts the harbinger before the marching towards the skin and the vessels and the hair. at first, I wanted my skin to stretch like the tendon of a blue sea to make room for all of the ache, but now I want to be small, to shrink and slip through the eye of an needle and take less space and air than everyone else in the room I dream of being the first atom to split; of being swallowed by a beach pelican, and spat out like tiny fish bones he couldn't devour; there are so many unfinished poems in my chest, I'd like to think my body is an unfinished poem that I am writing, and that one day maybe not every poem will be about my body, but they will be about the mountains and rivers I command to rise in the softest parts of me; I hope you are commandi...
Charlie, you must know Old Grandma Vivienne is a wild old hoot, No more than that, she's a crazy old bat, No, no, no, a sadistic psychedelic maniac So as mother always says: Don't listen to what she says, don't take her candy when offered, and don't smell her flowers, She used to be an apothecary you know. Oh Lydia! I'm sure she's not so bad, just you wait I'm sure Old Grandma Vivienne is nice, No Charlie! Don't listen to what she says, don't take her candy when offered, and don't smell her flowers! She used to be a mortician you know She can't be all of those things, Lydia! But! I promise that I won't listen to what she says, I won't take her candy when offered, or smell her flowers Good Charlie, because she used to be a taxidermist you know. At early noon, Charlie trekked through weeds and fallen logs, Chanting all Lydia had told him: Don't listen to what she says, don't take her candy when offered, and don't ...
I stand on my toes, on a box, on top of a wheeled chair to reach the clock high above me, so that I can cut the whiskers of it off with a pair of gardening scissors. But I hear a knock at the door and it is present standing in the way holding a fish, she hands it to me, so I ask her what to do with it, she tells me she knows that everything the birds say really matters to me that she knows that I count and store every breath that the trees release, in an empty peanut butter jar under my bed, but that I could not remember my first cold water, there was no recollection of my first bright moon. She tells me to hold the fish and decide what it means to me in terms of love, so that I will remember when I leave this room, and when I go to sleep, that I once loved something new, and small, and grey, and something that had scales and looked nothing like me, and I didn’t know where it came from or where it would go from there, but that that di...
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