Friday 11/02/2007 01:38:00 AM

The terminology is sketchy sometimes. The rationale of testicles is hard to follow. Their faces like grim tuxedos in sweaty lapels. Dead flowers about their necks. Searching for the refuge of filthy handkerchiefs. High school proms minus the punch. And the condoms. And the makeshift abortions. Daft gods polishing their thrones with the blood of disciples. Tiny doll faces. Their lipstick wearing off. In callous revisions of stories I've given up on writing.

No words. And too many. Upon the crucifix of friendship. My love. My poison apple. Poised to meet its fairy tale end. The needle dancing thoughtlessly in the crook of her elbow. As she converses with gods most will never know exist.

She's as pretty as any lie is. A ladder in a fire. A window in a prison. The illusion of freedom.

I know them. The kites on the beach that no one's flying. The wind in her hair that makes sex easy to forget. The little people I find in big questions. The blank checks in their eyes that always bounce when I go to cash them.

I'm richer now that they're gone.

Gnawing on the feet of old barbie dolls. Her skin too close. Too pliable. To be any kind of metaphor for my life.

In her journal. In her words. The hint of a woman. The crease of gods ironing the sheets our bodies wrinkled. The circus. The insanity of the clown. Thinking I would ever laugh again.

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