tuesday

when the sun shines

and every little person

decides to keep a hold of their mind

i'm murky and still behind mirrored lenses

and white clapboard fences



the end.



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when i was a little boy, i'd sit on the swing in the back yard with my grandmother, and eat cheesecake and drink iced tea. the dog would sit on the picnic table, and look at me, ears up and alert and wanting but not having. the breeze would blow, and the sun would brown the grass, but we were fine, because we were in the shade, swinging back and forth, listening to the wind rasp the leaves, and rush the waves of grass in the fields.



the dog still wants but does not get. my grandmother lost her mind, she's wasted away and will die soon. and as for me, i grew up and did things that i would never imagine doing as a boy.



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i'm losing my sense of humour. and i have lost courage to say the things that kill. i'm telling you i'm sorry. i wish i'd known. i'm telling you, you that made me, i miss you. i think if i had you i would never want us to wake up again, but stay unconcious and quiet, breathing silently and together warm.



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confessions come like orgasms, and i watch, the way she blushes and leans forward to share, glowing that she can tell this secret that she's carried tied up inside, twisting it like a rubber band inside, and i bet she even feels a warm mush in her stomach spreading through her. and i keep a face that is careful and i'm drinking my coffee and the light is orange orange orange she had a breakdown later in the car, crying, and i had my arm around her.



she'd gloat if she saw me now. godless pagan that i always was and now she doesn't have love to hold her feelings back.