Tuesday, March 07, 2006

salted winter road

You put fingers to your closed lips like you know what’s going to happen. You feel the chapped scales and know what happens, what you’re doing, how this will end. Someone is hit by a car, evoking tears in the eyes of a passerby with a life too beautiful. She’s gorgeous, strutting and sinking into an eyelined and Vicodined existence. She knows that person with the hairline fracture and a bruise like ink stains. Don’t spill your coffee, dear; return your ear buds to their places. Swallow them like round little pills of wonderous wandering lust. She wants a girlish boy who can spread himself over her curled-up form, like ringlets soaked in gin. I won’t be mad if you kick me as hard as you can. I want the smoke but not the cigarette. I want the scar but not the wound. Salt me and kick me with all you’ve got.


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