"Are you here to deprogram me?"
You have the transfixed gaze. It's not for me. I put my hands in the dirt and felt my childhood there. Now I can't bother to rest.
Steam hung in the room. She'd grown sick of all the digressions. She was waiting for the big punch. The stranglehold, the one to drop her to the cold tile. Her bones were still resonating like a thwacked tuning fork. Polishing, that's what she does now. She just sits in the lavatory and lets time become peculiar. The idle words of strangers beat at her thoughts. Snipets of conversation surface, come to a rolling boil, vaporize. Why won't the drain work? It was just the one light on in the main room. If the other wakes, will she slay? "Is it even my fault when the wind makes the vinyl shade rattle?"
No.
The place was all hers. Maybe another like her kept it going in some other corner of the building. No. There was that deserted emptiness. The souls that were sleeping didn't bother to exist. This was a dangerous universe she put herself into.
There's a trouble with men. But who could ever stand women? I'm can't even put up with myself. Put me down, please now!
I'm thinking about ridin' the dog to Chicago in July. For the experience of the bus ride if nothing else, but there's also a music festival. If only dialogue could be learned.
The Tumor comments more or less uncontrollably but I'm almost fond of the insanity. You know it's terminal as well as I.
There is a splatter of book jackets by the bed. I AM NOT AN ARTIST! The old ladies put them in boxes in the library and tell you to help yourself. I might try that. The pictures are fine, the heritage so rich. A nub end of banana has been left in the corridor outside my door.
By rote, rote, rote, I keep on repeating it. Put it to bed. I'm not angry. It's not discipline. Probably terrorism.
"Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth"
Street corner societies, gangbangs and drivebys, chemical dependency, and the synthetic panics.
It's a selfish lust.
P.S. Oh, Tonight! at the Arena Stage, DC... I get to see Devy's aunt. That's mostly what I'm excited about. Not the play, a old modern thing, Rainmaker, but I won't kill all hope.
P.P.S. Spanish class was canceled (seriously, only one L? pfft), I flew past somebody's abandoned turkey sandwich on my bike, checked the mail, if I hadn't gotten a postcard I would be putting down something on the terror of antici
pation right here and now. I'm not even ready to be through with this yet.
Steam hung in the room. She'd grown sick of all the digressions. She was waiting for the big punch. The stranglehold, the one to drop her to the cold tile. Her bones were still resonating like a thwacked tuning fork. Polishing, that's what she does now. She just sits in the lavatory and lets time become peculiar. The idle words of strangers beat at her thoughts. Snipets of conversation surface, come to a rolling boil, vaporize. Why won't the drain work? It was just the one light on in the main room. If the other wakes, will she slay? "Is it even my fault when the wind makes the vinyl shade rattle?"
No.
The place was all hers. Maybe another like her kept it going in some other corner of the building. No. There was that deserted emptiness. The souls that were sleeping didn't bother to exist. This was a dangerous universe she put herself into.
There's a trouble with men. But who could ever stand women? I'm can't even put up with myself. Put me down, please now!
I'm thinking about ridin' the dog to Chicago in July. For the experience of the bus ride if nothing else, but there's also a music festival. If only dialogue could be learned.
The Tumor comments more or less uncontrollably but I'm almost fond of the insanity. You know it's terminal as well as I.
There is a splatter of book jackets by the bed. I AM NOT AN ARTIST! The old ladies put them in boxes in the library and tell you to help yourself. I might try that. The pictures are fine, the heritage so rich. A nub end of banana has been left in the corridor outside my door.
By rote, rote, rote, I keep on repeating it. Put it to bed. I'm not angry. It's not discipline. Probably terrorism.
"Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth"
Street corner societies, gangbangs and drivebys, chemical dependency, and the synthetic panics.
It's a selfish lust.
P.S. Oh, Tonight! at the Arena Stage, DC... I get to see Devy's aunt. That's mostly what I'm excited about. Not the play, a old modern thing, Rainmaker, but I won't kill all hope.
P.P.S. Spanish class was canceled (seriously, only one L? pfft), I flew past somebody's abandoned turkey sandwich on my bike, checked the mail, if I hadn't gotten a postcard I would be putting down something on the terror of antici
pation right here and now. I'm not even ready to be through with this yet.