(I don't often make dedications, but...: For Rob, the only person who has ever truly managed to be dead and alive a the same moment in time. This is to your blonde hair, to your black hair and when it's in-between. And this is for the days of wood piped organ shops and cancerless dreams. We may have never had sex (thank god -I don't want your disease), but that has nothing to do with anything -you know that's not what I mean.)

(An Equation For Past Time)


(My Beloved Childhood Disease)

I drank turpentine as I listened to Lua ramble on about sweetness or wall paint or those tricky girls who live on Lincoln Street claiming
to be half North and half Nothing and unpossessed by the upward church going downs
that have claimed all of our little town, even the hipsters smoking weed behind the white
house –claiming that sin is self-deceit, but that wasn't quite what they meant to mean
To them it's more about the appearance of everything or the lack
thereof that took them from swimming pool glamour to half-pornographic and mild mannered with their
unprecedented too-hot-for-sundown experience hounds – little girls in sundresses pretending they're in gowns. Or that they're women: easy, lucky,
Free like me –the only girl to ever escape Hell unburned and still naive
They lick batteries and recall when their head had no neck or their hands were
hunchbacks pulling strings of smoke like thread between bells in the holy tower -that
fast paced, quick track to the end of all things
They always forgot what it was supposed to mean, but took photographs so if
nothing else they could always see, and that never told them anything but
they didn't mind, at least they had an equation with which to map past time
each click a flesh of intoxication saved by holy pearls in her hands as they
wind like clocks around her neck –an attempt to subconsciously protect
And I stood in that hallway, the place you said I was born, and I discounted myself
of ever have been a piece of this town
I hid in half murdered treetops full of branches I used to slip off and cried about
leaving Home when I didn't know where Home was but that I'd get there someday and
I hoped it wouldn't look like this or
like my lover in his white house with neglected black gates and neglected me
unsure if I ever knew the boy who ran away to make love or life
with my childhood virginity