Friday, January 21, 2011

leftovers for lunch

Are you sure it doesn't matter?
Hot red holes yawn beneath the nails-
I am curling and burning like a blond witch at the stake.
In this heat
rolling down the window barely rustles the feathers.
There ain't no rain in sight
& the migraine rasps angry & yellow over the dusty wheel marks.
I've got footprints on my forehead,
these bootheels are not imaginary,
the path less traveled just happens to be through my frontal lobe
and these feelings are heavy with footfalls
& spurs a-spinnin'.

Small piece:
I'm a schadenfreude junkie
-gonna laugh at everyone's pain tonight.

Running Sounds:
The city puts rust in my lungs
and winter clings about the ankles
with wet and needy hands.
Feet stagger where the pavement has been broken.
There are train tracks and stories too grown over to revisit.
No matter how many strides I take
my heartbeats still sound like his name.
I run until my ears are burning with the cold
and there is a simmering beneath my skin
the rhythm speeds up, but never loses its trajectory.

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