Wednesday, February 20, 2008

only 14% of bullets want to kill

the rain is the shape of the inside of my wrist.  i stand on the hood of my car next to the freeway in order to shake the sky open like a blanket so that music can learn how to dance with itself.  my legs are rolltop desks and i am running.  time is a cedar tree that i climb the way light bulbs climb moths.  i have buried too many flowers.  when the vases crack i feel my veins stretch and moan and i look for mountains to stand on top of and if there aren't any, i use buildings.  they will do.  some evenings i sit by the sea, while dogs move like cities and men and i feel twilight's dull ache in my chest, and when the color drains from the sky i think i might cry, but it is when i do not, that i know i am happy.

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