Dead Canaries

Some would say I never change. I guess I don't in any way that can be counted.

The tear in the paper bag. Your lunch trailing behind you in mayonnaise shadows. How do you change that? Why even try to . The spoiled footprints are easiest to find when lost. Close your eyes and listen for the smell of sadness.

Write the word as if someone's listening. And hope that no one is.

Of course it's stupid. And cliche. Because life is. And life is my only frame of reference. Itchy encyclopedias of men passing on the shoulder as I wait to turn left. The sticky legs of crickets fouled with circumstantial songs.

It's easy to write. Just sleep with eyes open. It's easy to love. Just write as if you'll never have to read it.

You have to die to be brilliant. Have to live to get the chance. Everything in between is just funeral arrangements.

The pistol in her garter breathed loud against her dress. As she hunted for ammunition.