then he wavedhis fingers are harp strings,tall blades of grass, cowering with a breeze,a howl escaping them.the notes with the wind curve across dunes,mountainous joints curl with each pull,sand escapes through protective eyelashes,spreading its wings, gritty feathers,enveloping a woman,wearing time on her face like a veil,she imagines the rugged stringsvibrating against her satin fingersare the throats of songbirds,cut from their beaks.her tears and soft sobs write songs for the harphe left near a window from which shesaw him smile to her for the last time.
To Build A HopeThere is a place without joy. It is the end of everything. A hollowed tree filled with needles and lighters, nails and razor blades and cigarettes embedded in rotten lungs. A painting without edges, born of monsters and shards of might-have-beens. There is a place where a child used to play, a child that lasted for a billionth of a blink. There is a place and it is my mind.There was a time when I did not sleep. When my feet drummed on spiked gravel from dawn till dawn. When the numbers on a counter dictated everything I consumed. When a bite of lettuce meant an extra 50 crunches. Food was life and life was food and life was not living. Living meant hell trapped within my head in a place without joy. There was a time I was dying.There was a bed and a skeleton. 12 stabs in each arm to find a shrivelled blood vessel. Drip. Drip. Drip. "This will give you strength," they said. "This will make you fat," I heard. Drip. Drip. Drip. And the radio crackled and sang. Crackled and sang a
stillyou lust to make his long legs quiverlike two blades of grassheavy with morning dewbut you're the first frost of november.
no"what's it like to be drunk?""the wind nips at your skin,an eager puppy with razor teeth,every edge is a blur, the world blends,and you are whipped around in it,a shaken martini, gulped down,brains sending signals of'thump thump thump'as if your cells are knocking from under your skinlet me out, they cry out to you,your nails picking at your skin,making sure that your nerves have not fallenin a drugged sleep.""and when you talk, your voice floats away from you,and you can't catch it,your voice swims into nonexistence,yet you speak,words that you scoop up like dry sand in a fist,slowly flowing out through the small spacebetween your curled pinkie and palmthey become those grains, joining up, matching to whatever they touch,""you are one with everything,and you feel the sun through your stem, warming your petals,you feel the salt water in your beak, a fish, or maybe a crab flopping about,you feel your branches snap in the wind, falling onto your long, raised roots
insoucianceanother time you've looked through my pulsedeaf to the shrieking of vital failingonly my song has the stealth to slip by youno vacancy near your balanceand I'm sorry.elastic reaches and falling shortdistance chills my pleasreleased all warmth andthe wraith of allure.your insouciance dripsdown my spine. crawlingand achingand breaking.