December: a whisper, the kind that I slip in your ear.
you & me, baby, we're like a skipping cassette tape(with an echo, accidentally, of course)
again. again. again
my melancholy shake down, it's midnight; I'm wide awake
third time does the trick, right?
But how to bind the lines together like
the rhythm of a song? (elliott smith . between the bars. The empty spaces
in children's faces. they don't make records anymore.) an angry swell
and a pell-mell dash & a riot without a cause
that's setting me off like a rocket launch into moonless black fabric.
he told me, he told me, he told me, he didn't think that th(i)s was real.
"neither do i. neither do i." I intoned, in shades of breaking treble and
white lily hands, brave, brave little girl pocketbook
soul: I wear it on my slightly hippie-trippy corduroy purse now.
this is the quick sliding back to
- bloody feet on the hardwood floor,
weeping ballerina by the ceiling length mirror-
-the vacant, vapid stare of an empty locket (it was plastic, anyway)- and
-my stomach twisting loops and Christmas present bows at your words,
but mostly tying tangled knots-
we tried too hard, tried too long, tried too much.
is the end,