Tuesday 3/06/2007 11:35:00 PM

She chatted with jesus on the elevator. He complimented her on her shoes. She congratulated him on his fabulousness and inquired as to whom his publicist was. Oh. He did not like that.

She put the words in the freezer and sat down at the kitchen table. Logging her waiting in arguments with word puzzles and handfuls of peanuts. The occasional sip of diet pepsi. She wasn't sure how long it took for liquid to become solid, but she suspected it was a slow process. Like everything is. From the moment she punches in the first letter. An infinite undress infront of a crowd of strangers as her costume slithers away. As hollow as when she wore it. As hollow as it wore her.

If there were pills. Yellow or blue ones, she thought. Wouldn't it still be the same waiting. For liquid to harden. Just then I'd never see the thaw again. Isn't it only natural, she insisted, that the disease would be the origin of the cure. I'm not a scientist, but I know the incest of nature and irony is what makes art. I'm no one's lover, but I know all anyone wants is hope. Tomorrow in little ration, nitrogen packages so we'll never go hungry again.

It doesn't matter how it tastes.

She shoved a marker in his face asked jesus to sign her breasts. And he said, he loved her, but not enough to die again.

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