Monday 8/20/2007 01:01:00 AM

Only half a bottle left. But more than that to tell. The paradox of the poet. Of the addict. Of the person left to launder on the rope in their tug of war. Stiff skin. Bellows against the breeze. Lingers over the mud in the middle. Of a pulling contest only alone ever wins.

No paragraph short enough to dissuade this scavenger from picking at what's left of the carcass. It's already dead. And my shame dissolved. In fractions of skin. Melting soft on the bills of the vultures. I can't blame anyone. I can't learn from what I've done wrong. Because I'm wrong even if I start again. I'm lost even if I find myself. Because it's all middle. And I'm there in it. Not knowing what to touch.

Sanctuary can only lead two places. Happiness or hopelessness. Depending on where you've come from.

Counting the fat on my shins. Spaces between each bone. Until I reach my middle. And then I know. How to draw the map. Between myself and them. And then their lies have character. If you can count that high.

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