stations of the cross.
it is an order to ascend from a seated or horizontal position and assume a ready stance.
yeast. sunshine. bodies out of bed.
the sweet woolen paths for ants to follow down at a picnic
red and woolen warm on a northwestern man
tattered and hopelessly dirty on kurt cobain
spitting static in my car
the radio is a passenger who only wants me to sing.
i try not to remember the things you forgot.
it took the absence of those little things for you to remember them.
we only remember the traumatic, embarrassing things, the scary things, the really sad things in our lives. we don’t remember the smallest things–really, the happiest things.
the taste of water from a canteen is metallic;
with a tongue turned to tin, i screw on the lid.
they line the walls of that godforsakenplace down the street
sink your ass into cold, french-fry greased squeaky red plastic.
i’ll take a plate of pancakes and some coffee PLEASE. thanks marge.
it is the sweet and complicated configuration my legs assumed in kindergarten on a short scratchy carpet. to me, it is not the salty snack, for i have never preferred the stale dryness of a pretzel.
it is the ultimate fate of so many in the world. the young people in the bar at 4pm; the students in the library all afternoon; the random people in the street. a house, a fenced yard, a bucket of cleaning supplies, a laundry room… it’s in the cards for so many. the domestic scene. [...]
it wasn’t like the consequences weren’t considered. surely they had to have crossed his mind. but the sweet assumption of safety, of she’ll-never-find-out, of the exciting possibilities made all reason, unreasonable and everything precious, cheap.
he was tempted. he gave in.