buying tickets, rip the stubs, hang them on the wall, scrapbook form complete with small pink hearts punched out of the children's cardboard.
gun powder paint, dripped on white mugs, heat-dried, upside down in cupboards that belonged to your grandmother, pour black coffee in the morning and sip.
t-r-i-b-u-l-a-t-i-o-n-s spelled in sign language, on the wall, across photos of sky, clouds raining, lightning flash, blind some farmer, smash some wheat, rip barns into pieces and set one half on top of 18333 sw 32 st.
salt the caramel, lick the spoon and put it in the dishwasher, contemplate the meaning of life, curse god three times because that's a lucky number, write the ****** mary's name thirty-six times across the tile backsplash, latin roots swimming through your head, you only took one year of it.
take wool yarn, knit socks for the kindergarden teacher, put out your cigarettes systematically down the arches, dye them pink, wrap the box in last year's christmas paper, drive four point seven miles to a place that would be better with blankets and closed-tight eyes.
toes say it's a long walk back, so jump the cliff and pray loudly to the seagulls.