they pulled my hair at charm school.

they stole my guestbook during rolecall.

sit in the lawnchairs , admire the odd strip of water lit up by + MAY 5. 2003 = 23

+

three-thirty a.m. in the bathroom of an art studio in a warehouse by a canal/ i have yelled for scull from the doorway (the only one like it thus far in the succession of studios we have been lead in and out of) . the boys are left to talk amongst themselves in the living room. the tequila & gin & the limes are instructing us to laugh at the contents of m's medicine cabinet. it is not long before M. rushes in with his gigantic eyes & choppy brown hair & his exclamation points. later, we will tour the empty gallery space, the bathrooms that don't work yet , the odd hallway spaces full of old metal scraps & canvas & stools. we will all stick together like a rambunctious group of schoolchildren in a museum. scull & i will vow to bring rollerskates next time. the tall blonde curator with small glasses will let his guard down exactly one time.

but now, now it is three-thirty a.m. we are in a bathroom with cathedral ceilings examining the anatomy of one another's ears. it is not possible to laugh too loudly in a warehouse.

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ghosts!