Hah, yeah, I get on those kicks all the time, I say.

Yeah, it's like, you know, yeah?

Yeah. I nod. The party isn't over yet.

You're not getting, like, you know, huh?

No. No, not at all, I say.

Sure, yeah, you wanna, hmm?

Yeah, I guess so, whisper.

Takes my hand in my head puts acid mouth tongue.

So, you, yeah, and me?

Nod. Whatever.

!

"Mother, won't be home tonight. Tell Pa it's okay to worry,
don't know where I'll be
when I'll be home
Love you."

!

Takes me bedroom hold the fort

Nice ***, hmm, you, yeah?

You're ****** as we.

Can you tell I'm the goat-footed balloonman?

Cry far and wee for me.

!

"Mother, taking crack-baby home today;
tell Pa it's okay to worry
don't know where I'll be
when I'll be home
Love,"

!

And that was whatever far ago in party temple-house
of Solomon and concubines.

Yeah, it's like, brainwave, chemical fire, no?

No, I.

whisper.

No, not at all. (Ofcoursenot.) -----!

Hmm, what's this?--hourglass figure,
trickle sands of time
tick tick tick
tick
Who are youwerbistdu? Hmm, what's this?--a spider,
step veins cry tremor
click click click
dead.

Too bad you don't know-
Or maybe you do?
The way,
The way I look at you?

You make me smile,
Lazy ***,
Don't you know that?

Please, stop.

I was a moth
drawn to your flame
once.

I was a moth
when I saw your candle
extinguish
from afar.

I was a moth
being burned by your embers
touching
the scales on my wings.

I was a moth
on your doorstep;
I fluttered about the light on your front porch
while
you kissed her goodnight.

I was a moth;

I was a moth;

I am a moth,
and I am dying.

I am a moth,
and there is little time left for me.

For, in a month,
the magnetism will cease,
and the flame
will burn out.

Then what is left?

Lonesome--I cannot write today.

I read your words like heartbreak
heartbroken
from your bleeding pen

leaving tears on the page.

And see where here we are foremost together;
alas a dreamingdream in a picture frame.

Interrupted only I thirst for water downed the drain.

This is only an appeal to the beginning,
a reference to something present and
a radio signal to what endsshallend.

EverytimeIwrite I feel
a little more
eighteen and a little less
four
and twelve
and seventysix.

But I long for Seven.

Lonesome--I cannot write today.

Shan't winit, shanty, so give the lass a kiss from 'far and wee.

Itwasallingood fun,--so--(where nowhere I belong is
wherever you may be)

And can't you see I love you?(where far and shingle
houses ullulate and wait) I undulate and unzip
but whichweigh the feather lightly?

Lonesome--I cannot write today.

So write tomorrow, I say.

I haven't thought about it
in a while,
that time I carved thin marks in
the sand with a
razor blade.

But as I was sweeping the beach,
I found them, now old
and barely there,
yet still present and visible
in the sun.

Eventually someone would
notice them, perhaps
as they stepped through
barefoot and sticky
from the sea.

I'm sure someday
all the footprints
from other people's lives
will erase the little marks
and all else besides.

I waited until the darkness
brushed its hand through
the sand
and the moon took the tide up
to wash them away.

The storm outside grew calmer,
calmer and calmer still,
until

we realized the birds were out
and suddenly, people were
mowing

their lawns and making noise
and why did it have to be so loud
when

it was more quiet during the storm
as the storm outside grew calmer,
calmer and calmer; still.