Sliver of the moon

Hear, hear my friends! Here, here (I am). Gather round, gather round the oriental rug that covers up an altar that I once made- I think there might be a burn mark here or there....in the places between my thoughts, between my legs,
 between the pages of any summer novel
left behind in the beach sand.

The particles of cupcake sprinkles that sink and chafe

                      and sprinkle every Saturday of summer everafter

                                                           with the feeling of forgetting something.

Because we must forget,
{merely pretend to neglect} our times we each have,

our weeks before we say

"I love you". Cause that's the only time it ever means, everything that shudders in heat, as you drip, and you choke so hard against it that it burns somewhere farther deep that the deepest level of the city street.

That sliver of a MOON right there, that sliced opening, gleaming into the sinews that pumped a pumping heart- of that old factory of brick-stacked nights....one on top each other, ON top each other....one on top of each other we rolled...
But I think I don't remember them. I think they spiral in a hundred lopsided figure-eights made by a sparkler in the sweaty, sticky night of the East coast summer so many miles away. When all of us forget each others faces, because all of our eyes are burning with the dripping salty water.



And down my school-girl little mind does skip-
from Parisian streetlamp to streetlamp;
                      zigzagging in a dizzying, wonderful suffocation...like the thousandth lick on a swirly lollipop by a pigtail girl in the backseat of the family van.
...Then I stretch my arms up high, around, and grasp an entire Columbus-flat land that I punched-in-the-side bought one night.
[[10 fingertips hot against the window, sitting Native and naked underneath a sinful white sheet, and it was mine. And I thought it'd never be, like the he's never were. ]]

• But now it is. How it is?
• When it is, when did this (grin) all become?

....when did we find ourselves, each of ourselves, in the cities we walked in memories-pride-,... no dear blurred recollection-in haunted Addiction of.
We were addicts.

(We are addicts?)

Of the reckless to the responsible scale of law which....law, LOUDly, plank-hammer-nail themselves apart.
....but when did the porcelain makeup actually cover up scars in my womb, [/////] and my, my, my, ...my cancerous marks that may just smear balled-up cotton of my warmest sleep...

Warmest sleep in the city of my, the city of my, unwritten descriptions.

The middle ground west of my next adventureland. My darling dear, and my lack of words. Here's to you! - the views I see from all around.

Running from a burning firework, a burning magic, in a wide open sweet-smelling green space....only to watch it reveal and arc overhead....
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Daily headphones: JET "She's a Genius", Spoon "Underdog", CCR "Bad Moon Rising"