hair saturated with the smell of bonfires old trees hot coals (eyes too)
thinking about letters and postage stamps on the drive home (always do)
dreaming about reading this new book I have aloud to you
I don't think you'd see the beauty in it
I read it to myself in bed and tiny strands of smokey hair fall into the corners of my mouth I taste you
I tell myself that's what it is
your ghost

taking inventory

perfect circle china doll cheeks, sewing machine, peach tea. the tickling hairs of invisible paranoia spiders. sticky keyboards (paint and honey). swedish crooners calling bluebirds home, killing all my old lovers.
this week's favorite colors: humming & electric.

Missing: The Good Old Days

The last time I ate this heavily I dreamed of clocks and blonde holocausts wolves chasing after my father and the circles of time that plague even my waking moments. I could see inside all of out cells and understand why we stop growing when our knowledge of the world gets too big. If i never knew of taxes I'd be ten feet tall by now. My hair down to my knees and sleeping in driveway puddles. The last time I ate nothing for tree days - half out of laziness and half out of the desire for something better to come along - that time I dreamed of prisms in our foreheads, spectrums of light (until now unseen) reaching through the space between us through the dark and into out skulls glowing warm and green with lust. I dreamed of our parents, somehow connected though unaware of one another. Looking twice as they pass on the highway, in the grocery store. Pangs of kinship rattling through them. Gurgling up in their stomachs like seltzerwater bubbles.