Friday 8/31/2007 12:31:00 AM

Knowing the window was enough. Gentle bombs. The calm of catastrophe in pajamas too big for her. Each pillow a novel she wished she could write. Each bottle a suicide she'd fucked up.

The night like a Christmas tree. All lit up with nothing underneath. Things I never wanted. Tombstones in mirror making them alive again. The ladder's still there. I'm still standing on it. Trying to decide.

Whether I'm going down or up.

Meticulous vultures clean the meat away, but leave the bones intact. And I am the perfect cadaver. Coffin on my hip. Eager to discharge. The real autopsies of broken hearts.

They're dead.

Does it matter why?

I've been born before. Fits of lactose curdling to the scope of human. Sex in sour curds. The liquid left. Expecting me to drown in it.

I've been born before. and died just as much. long dresses in manias of sequin assuming i had already worn them. tall shoes balancing me. In fits of womanhood. stilted dowries draw them into my bed.

To draw our art with broken pencils. To write our words with empty pens. It's there.

Even if no one can see.

2 comments:
Theo said...

whew. that was a ride.

the line that hooked me
"nothing underneath"

ap said...

glad you liked it.

i guess you get it. there's nothing. and then there's nothing.

and they're very far apart.



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