patsy cline and blind blake, in the arboretum darkness of my bedroom.

i rolled my ankle in the woods and now i can hardly walk, am hurling my body from surface to surface,

when everything has already been written, in any language, in every language, before you throw those stones at me tell me what is your house made of EVERYTHING IS SO FUCKING DRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

delete, melodrama.

i only care for things i can touch. (am only interested, in)

substance, plot, storyline, character development.

flannery o'connor, everything that rises must converge, the yage letters;

maybe something herman hesse, related. ive got some things to throw away.

but lets remember i've always been messy about my clothes. .

raw trash,

and georgia sam.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jq_gXjm7XjM

madness,

for lying down, the color of myself, no sound, wandering around in bhanus words.

debt, subjugation, and decay.

turquoise, silver,

the pulse of a lost moment,

they are notes. they are days.

there's no one living in my old place, and i've found myself slipping up the three floors of rickety wrought iron fire escape and letting myself in - to press up against the windows, to be enveloped in the navy of late night, and the crystalline sun through the kitchen windows, the reason i was drawn to that space,

if i could only pack up, and keep that one room with me;
if i could keep it all with me;

if i do,
if i could..