cello strings make a good noose.
2003-05-22, 4:22 p.m.
once upon a time, i could write... composing alliterative sentences with a flair reserved for those headed for publishing companies... once upon a time, i couldn't help but write, scribbling on paperbags and papertowels... anything i stumbled upon that would hold ink... cigarettes burning low over yellowed fingernails... soap and smoke-scented hair hanging low over the burning amber end... but now... my head is filled with discombobulated sentences scratching irritatingly one over the other, images and phrases... that refuse to make sense...
i could compose volumes... on the way she holds her glass pipe, deftly in her left hand... flame licking achingly close to her thumb... or the way she crouched like a sick tiger on what appeared to be the free side of her cage... snapping the heads off of thistles through the bars...
i could fill pages upon pages... with the natural wonder of sunrise to sunset... from the roots of her hair... to the tips... yellow... to sunburst orange...or the way... you can witness the drama of life... to death... to rebirth... from her fingertips... to the skull imprints on her bony wrists.
yeah... i could write again... but what would be the point, really? it's all just a waiting game... a hiding game... a don't-find-me game... and i'm tired... of her hiding all of the pieces... in the folds. of her skirt.
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