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.