all my titles are times of night

things i should be writing about
instead of playing "machine gun" by portishead over and over:
  • boys with lisps.
  • the smell of tea tree oil & the heavy door open, the screen door closed, the 6th street brooklyn wind breezing through into your bedroom, a book always on the table next to your bed.
  • water on water, rain on a swimming pool, rain on a river.
  • the end of summer closing in and i never thought it would come to this, somehow.
  • there's a hand on my leg and it's moving.
  • the scene in "the little princess" at her birthday party where the teacher said very seriously "you are alone in the world" - an off screen line with a blurry background and a black balloon that suddenly popped after she said it. i never did like balloons.
  • standing on the toilet seat holding the stall door open in my catholic high school building to see if my knees looked okay in my skirt, if my knees felt okay, the weight still buckling, the things written on the walls there that may or may not have broken my heart, that may or may not still be here, the caves crumbling.
  • when the horses jumped into the ocean, that's when i left the theater.
  • consistent spiritual nurturing. (?)
  • heads pressed on a buzzing railroad track. "you are waiting for a train. a train that will take you far away. you know where you hope this train might take you, but you can't be sure." the rest never mattered.
  • there was a sun shower.
  • and then there was fog.
  • someone is going to die.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

and patchouli