March 16, 2005

Sitting on the balcony edge
a thought (it flew past her like the sparrows in spring) whispered in the ear next to her
a small crack, a slip, a tumbling ectstacy of reliefe, a hole and an endless darkness. they called it cure.
Cure? cure. …cure. cure…
questions, intonations, interpretations. fingers
gripping, gripping hard like the first time on a merry-go-round,
one small edge not quite sharp enough to instill waking pain.
no falling, no push, no cure.


March 12, 2005

She had a choice.
rip it out or swallow it all down.

it was endless, something like a tapeworm.
no one wants it, but it’s still there and growing.

killing it off would help make this experience a little bit.

small explosions behind the eyes, the mind shuts down, fumbling hands, a loss of conciousness.

sleep it off.