new york city

we don't want to miss a thing

we take turns taping back each other's eyelids

we fight to live, as furious as wounded wasps

swallowing unnamed antidotes

the cure for boredom

respite from the normal life

watch me

saving you

watching you

saving me.

Where we go.

We go here. struggle for it.

 i like my i's to have dots. i would like to have more then i've got.

this is a shot in the dark. between the legs. this is half my mind. this is me for a moment.

I hope you have enjoyed it.

Soft and compliant.

willard

my great-grandfather sits beside a frozen lake, looking in. around him winter blooms. he cuts a deck of cards on his knees. deals one hand for the ice, one hand for the sky. he eyes his own cards carefully, and constructs a birdhouse from the rest. the sky wins a hand. the ice folds. the birds make a nest in their new home and they lay some eggs. my great-grandfather is tired and has nowhere to sleep but underneath the sky. i whisper a story in his ear about little men who live in the clouds throwing buckets of snow. i tell him about how my cats watch birds at the feeder through the window of my house. i talk a lot of nonsense. we watch the birds and i name them after my parents. it is too bad my great-grandfather is deaf, because i think he would like my stories.

testing. testing.

testing. 1. 2. 3.