[050] Scraps.
07/08/2009 09:57 a.m.

you pretty american boys with your
pretty american eyes, what have
you got that i haven't got? is it
that spain and secret cuba peek
out from me like buckshot and spat
up chewing tobacco?

i am not afraid to die, as we've discussed.

Don't look at me like that. Every body
does it and no one is to blame. Given
the way she feels about the following:
obsolescence, social interaction, imm-
aterial luxuries, and the taboo of
loneliness, one should react in discreet
agreement and YELL --

tais tois, mon coeur! and give me hence great
plains and spacemen sorrows hollowed out on
hallowed grounds, it sounds like drowing
monsters yelling "olly olly oxen-free," and
i'll bet she yelled at you because she's
always been a pox at hide-n-seek.

a pox on this landscape -- even in the outer
reaches of eastern europe they are building
mountains out of trash and molehills out of
graspings. GASPING!:

tais tois, mon coeur: she rasps in the morning
when she speaks and her blood-let eyes brim
sickly.

the laborers here in prague are swaddled up in
green overalls and, over all, they're boys really --
the sort with blondeish hair and dirty faces.
and they don't speak any english except for when
they smile and treat their dogs like friends:
these are both universal when coupled (tripled?)
with green overalls.

another boy who knew you who was fat and scruffy
writes after how long? hell, forever! he's stationed
in the dusty badlands and his head's all broken down,
"remember --" no, i'd rather not, "that day we were
alone and all we did was fall asleep --"

he asks why and you're not sure. fourteen year old you
was just the sort who would remove her top and tempt
his hands and then deny, the sort with circulating
naked photos and self-obsessing grins.

sewed my fingers together by the dead skin. felt good.