On the body as it falls out warm and lunges forward.
If I'd had any say in the matter, all of my parts would still be floating around inside my parents. They'd spread from their heads to their feet, all these little bits of me, with no worries and no final convergence to make them whole. No survival instinct but no responsibilities, either. They'd be happy in their oblivion, too, all of my little bits.
What would eventually become my brain would be hiding somewhere inside one of my father's testicles, for example. Maybe my heart would be kept warm in one of mom's ovaries. My blood coursing through her veins, past her elbow, down to her fingertips and back. My prospective eyes at the base of his neck. My bones-to-be gathered safely under the mole on his cheek, probably, if he weren't dead. A tonsil in her big toe and a kidney exiting her left ventricle because no one ever wants to be born, anyway. Aren't we always screaming to go back inside?
Love lies laughing. The stars are doing some fucked up shit to us Geminis. Oh, I know most of you probably don't buy it, but we're all chasing our tails and pining our hearts out. They're on our sleeves but we're all thumbs.
Dear babies,
I know we don't talk much, but that doesn't mean I don't love you. Daddy's been busy. Since we last spoke, I've nearly completed my seasonal stint at the IRS, become a superstar DJ, and decided to grow out my hair again.
I've been worked dead. I've had enough work for the rest of my life. For the year, at least. All that's left besides jack shit is a wedding in Portland and back to school in the fall. Preparations for the next great American novel. God knows the world doesn't have enough struggling writers.
Love and rockets,
Alan
What would eventually become my brain would be hiding somewhere inside one of my father's testicles, for example. Maybe my heart would be kept warm in one of mom's ovaries. My blood coursing through her veins, past her elbow, down to her fingertips and back. My prospective eyes at the base of his neck. My bones-to-be gathered safely under the mole on his cheek, probably, if he weren't dead. A tonsil in her big toe and a kidney exiting her left ventricle because no one ever wants to be born, anyway. Aren't we always screaming to go back inside?
Love lies laughing. The stars are doing some fucked up shit to us Geminis. Oh, I know most of you probably don't buy it, but we're all chasing our tails and pining our hearts out. They're on our sleeves but we're all thumbs.
Dear babies,
I know we don't talk much, but that doesn't mean I don't love you. Daddy's been busy. Since we last spoke, I've nearly completed my seasonal stint at the IRS, become a superstar DJ, and decided to grow out my hair again.
I've been worked dead. I've had enough work for the rest of my life. For the year, at least. All that's left besides jack shit is a wedding in Portland and back to school in the fall. Preparations for the next great American novel. God knows the world doesn't have enough struggling writers.
Love and rockets,
Alan