Every day, I am a drunk. I wake up drunk and I go to sleep drunk. I drink like butter melts.
Every day I think about sewing us cardigans and putting appliques on them. Appliques of flowers and carnage on pink cardigans and brown. About bamboo, I think about bamboo and scream at my neurons, "why haven't you planted any bamboo yet?!" When the shoots finally dry, they will whip like foils. What will slide down them? I'm angry at my own laziness. I consider filling my body with the fat seeds of bird's nest bottle gourds. Every ventricle, every capillary. Growing into the halo of the moon straight from the gourds in my mitochondria. And the unknown persons who have slipped their nanotechnology into the base of your spine, where robots will drill out your fingers forever, even when I am immune. I think about what we wasted elsewhere, and how it is okay. And the slide of your neck. The taste of bread is left over in me, after months or perhaps a year. The way fresh bread stretches a little as you pull it apart. The way, in butter, it is chewy. That's gluten. The thing that makes bread good bores holes in my body. What are the due dates for my nerves? What to return? Was that book mine, or his? Which am I going to have to pay for, will I have to pay for all of it? Every last hesitant finger I begged to turn the page? I wonder to myself if the passengers in first class like to watch the economy class passengers board after them, is it a part of what you pay for, this? -Tay --------------------------------------------------- http://www.tayarrowsherman.com/ http://www.olio-academy.com/ --------------------------------------------------- _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [email protected] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
