I
I found myself drowning between the pages of ancient books in an old abandoned warehouse downtown.
The covers sent particles scattering upon opening, and I caught myself before a sneeze.
I don’t expect to read what anything says.
The textures run across my fingers, instead of my fingers running across them, and my feet sweep up before I can even get
A sense of balance.

II
The girls, they love their flowers, but we always forget.
There could be more to life, there could just be, there just has to be, but a woman never forgets the smallest details.
The littlest things we won’t remember, and we never were meant to.
But we’ll bring home the checks, we will satisfy our urges by sweating and spitting,
but we’ll never bring home the roses.

III
Life wants to be sequential, but we theorists seem to infiltrate the very fabric of sequence,
and refuse to watch our movies forwards.
Further more, Act 1 is after 3, 4 before that, and our intermissions are our beginnings.
And listening to Bach doesn’t make your babies smarter.

IV
All of my dogs are blind.
The bottom line: It doesn’t change the way I look at them,
but it changes the way they look at me.

V
It began in the NorthFace tower, and the years had shown it worn,
and all those years of hard work sprouted into harsh vines.
The walls were like after-bathing fingers and dripped all the same.
You must remember exactly which I mean; you were there.
You were just as delicious as you are now,
but less bitter.

02/28/2010

Posted on 03/01/2010
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