| Acustomedic to Myself The volume has changed. The stressed importance is all switched around. You won't know the difference between mailboxes and people, they will all look to be the same-- frightened beings, quivering in the effects of your carlights. Four stageplays flicker in your head. You're not tired; it's a mop to dance around with so as to keep awake, since you cannot find anyone else this time. one. I'm like an elbow amputated and trying to escape through salty layers. four. You're away when I need you except for nights when you seep in through slats and kiss my forearm, and soft bear traps keep you there. three. I was invovled with a man who has been dead for fifty-three years. The same thing happened to me, and he still writhes inside of my skull. He tells me what to say to ridiculous modern bulidings. I felt him in the cold water seeping from stone walls that held a train track high above the road. His evolution into liquid spoke my exact language. two. He'll kill her lest time trap them, and oceanwater waves make her sing for him. My lament is that he'll swallow hard with regret as the swells rise above and carry her body away from the shallows. |