they pulled my hair at charm school.
they
stole my guestbook during
rolecall.
Do not: pretend Order doesn't Matter. + JUNE 16. 2003 = f1
_ Spaces. The sea of blue & white tiles pasted down. Thursday night in the bathroom of a local bar & I am reluctant to leave the safety created by the tall stall door & the heavy metal latch , reluctant to wash the sweaty palms of my hands , to paper towel off the old ideas resurfacing. Want to lean my forward against steel, against glass, against the clear & concise lines of grout. The same feeling at the back of my throat Friday night as Ben & I walk up Crescent St. and the row of empty parking spaces behind the Elm St. Chapel seems to glow faintly. Yellow lines & to think: the copper haired man who parked his black car there two falls ago has gone under the sea, I hadn't mentioned that before, although it has been following me around all winter.
prev/next
class
notes, file of pom-pom
ghosts!
