Thursday, March 3, 2011

I'm done.

I feel finished.
I feel like something has put the plate onto my napkin.
I feel like I wasn't looking at the bus that hit me,
I was across the street drinking Swedish coffee.
But, It's not about me.
It's about the millions and billions of crushed and adored.
I don't have enough quarters to time travel.
I'll have to call Frank Sinatra.
He's known for his generosity.
Next time you see friend boy ask him to tell you the Tom Hanks story.
It will knock you under your cloth cornered meat walls it's so funny.
I like telling stories.
I like listening to stories.
Emily Dickinson has been fictionalized into Amelia Cake
In my manuscript.
She's obsessed with napkins.
She has a kitty.
She eats only clear broth and cigarettes.
Her friend has come into her room and tried on her pajamas,
And rubbed her feet.
And fingered the edges of her journal,
Her train schedule,
Her applications.
They ran plenty of hot water but were afraid to back into it.
They're sensitive.
They never went to New York.
They put all they're promise into one hand crafted wicker chair,
And rocked it all away,
Against the amber vice of their older half sisters.
And the worms lit the room a stale shade of green.
They wanted it so bad.

~Skin and Toast

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