(day 242: your fingers were spears (three parts))

Your fingers were spears
and they skewered me. I languished.
John Travolta laughed.  

I want to be fancied.
I didn't know better! Her purse is gold
strings, cut from your hand.

More needs to be said.
I write it! Still you are running, pant pant.
I will not follow.

I want to be fancied.

(hardly at all)

You don't know me. Fuck!
Words frenetic why's to why
can't I tell you me.

(sorry Death Cab*)

My heart: a full room.
No more possibilities.
I'm not (not) alone.



*http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-p3UKzLgVhc&feature=fvst

(a paroxysmal, often allergic disorder of respiration)

Hard to breathe, harder--
yes, weak lung; yes: achy heart.
Doctor says I'm fine. 

(literary burglary #1 OR, Sorry Dave Eggers)

First off, I'm tired.
I am true of heart! You, too: tired.
And you, true of heart.

!

(if you are not happy with the way that you are [do this in your mind])

See a place. Go there.
Name the ground beneath your feet.
What are you like, there?

("a dark and brilliant achievement")

im person ate
me, slick with olive oil and
body painted lines

(But what are your feelings about going to the beach?)

blood red blood blood veins
see shell quick slick cutting
mouth wrist open sea