Monday, February 11, 2008

the way the dizziness comes in

it starts with nothing, and in the end you have the wreckage of an orchestra, a houseplant, and 13 pitchers of honey twirling at the edge of your vision.  And you have vocal chords that can make sounds even when they're silent.  that's what it starts with: silence.  (you keep a handful of basketball courts on your shin.)  then there's this quiet hum that rises all around you.  (you keep a hornet behind your ear.)  then it all starts to sound like matchbooks making love with fire.  (you keep your scars inside your ribs.)  then all the pianos get angry.  (your throat is a bank vault.)  the sky decides to give up.  (you learned to cry from your backbone.)  the phone keeps telling you people are dying.  (your heart is a book.)  and just when you think you are going to fall down, you stand there, dripping water all over the bathroom tiles and you look at yourself in the mirror (the butterflies are being born inside your wrist) and of all things, you smile.

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