Breathing Underwater.

In a middle of a room… 

there is a stage, and on the stage there is a girl, and on a girl the words “Lone Wolf”. Black ink calligraphy, one word sprawling across the back of each thigh. Tall socks and gold hoops. Black lace. When she smiles it’s all lips, and when she looks at you it’s no fucks, but when her back is turned there are acne scars and the slope of shoulders, and longdark hair. You watch her face in the mirror and maybe the facade falls away, or maybe this is just another type of mask. A harder one to remove: the eyes vacant, pointing always to the upper right corner of the ceiling. ...stands a suicide. Cross-legged in the booth at the back, we sip our drinks and take turns walking our dollar bills to the stage. Lay them at the dancers’ feet like an offering or apology.

Sniffing a paper rose. It’s been raining like fuckall and the weather has me surly. Seventeen days of breathing underwater. Sitting across from a human, the damp sinks into layers and layers. Wet wool and cotton. We wrap our tongues around cheap beers. Smiling to a Self. She says just once she wants to be the You; says she wants to kiss a hurricane, but I am a new type of storm these days. Something slow and pervasive. Sinking through layers and layers. I am not the disaster you’re looking for.   

“somewhere it is Spring and sometimes

people are in real:imagine

somewhere real flowers,but

I can’t imagine real flowers for if I

could,they would somehow

not Be real”

She says the whiskey stops her hands from shaking because she asked it to. Wraps her fingers around the shotglass, sipping and suddenly shy. A girl leaves a stage, takes a man by the hand. Settles herself in his lap. Through the gap of gauzy curtains her half-closed eyes as she gyrates. (so he smiles, smiling) I take a girl by the hand and we sit in the noisy silence and there is no shaking.

“but I will not

everywhere be real to

you in a moment”

I leave her on the corner. I do not look back. Describe to me the shape of a Self.

It’s 8am and I’m driving to work and the sun is shining through rain like a curtain as I pull onto the Ross Island Bridge. I’m sure this is a metaphor, somehow. And everything is easier than I had guessed everything would be.I say the words but they don’t feel like mine. I say the words but they taste like nostalgia. I say the words And everything is easier. The sun. The rain. Than I had guessed everything would be. The is blonde with small hands. The is wet wool and cotton. The is half-closed eyes and black lace. The is wrapping a tongue around whiskey and smiling back syllables, afraid of sounding foolish. The is falling asleep at the wheel.

Remembering the way who looked at whom first, anyhow dancing.

Tell me about your closest brushes with death. Tall buildings or pedestals: I have no use for that kind of height. How far can you jump before it’s considered falling? How long before you hit the ground?