Stream of Consciousness
Breaks from the Note-Taking
Or maybe this. In case you missed god’s diss, there’s a Hostage Taker rocking a classic Ruger (respect) making calls from my hijacked mind liminal mansion, and since the police stopped being interested once, she defused the need for gunplay. Now it’s Sunday plus one, and her rings echo, cut the face, and summon my efficiency layered in Rum breath while sharing the redrum mysteries. Blasphemous a thing like her with such a human trade. All I asked for comes from lakes or streams, speaking untoward to a warden with a noble cause. (What?!?) Not an answer to the flaws but her multiplier is only ignorable because her existence is in QUESTION.
By Willem Indigo2 years ago in Poets
Breaks from the Note-Taking
Don’t excuse a thing; they laugh. A dirty gesture that festers…and pardon the rule breaks, the cursive demands it. Zero filter from quill to page. Never one for unique-looking words, so the Daemon powers through my Zombie form, so if they’re going to do the work……
By Willem Indigo2 years ago in Poets
building the mid-20s lexicon
by wearing a hair clip, going to the movies for the first time in six years -- with an ex, no less; the one who liked degrading sex; mess; he keeps his hand in agitated rest, icy on my left thigh -- by drinking beet juice (within five days of opening) because I feel particularly earth-bound, because it smells like the bottom of a well (near-empty), by leaning into the short haircut, which feels both manageable and unruly and, at last, aged instead of juvenile (the movie theater bathroom mirror is so piercing and portal-esque I wonder how long I can keep up this confident mien), by lamenting about meal planning and blepharitis with my cousin, by breaking in a posture brace, by inching toward a 1000-day Duolingo streak, by considering using Afterpay for a 1.7 fl. oz. face cream, by running out of shelf space, by developing a halcyon attachment to the squirrel that's made a home under the solar panels, takes a routine jaunt across the porch to eat ice chips, by throwing out anything with underwire, by treating each errand as sacrosant, by building World Market wishlists, by staring at my hands a lot, by Mary Oliver's locution, by rereading, by radically championing how my face splits in half, by sending love to the tip of my skull, by seeing what builds up under my nails.
By Erin Latham Shea2 years ago in Poets
