southern story.

vicious cycles of stranger awkwardness. the gaunt gas station beard man has been bombarded (after touching my back and kissing my fingers) by the tanned crystal meth queen cadaver. speaking to herself and everyone at once. kissing the rim of her coffee mug she throws her hair and hands back into the air towards the ceiling stretching strangely. only then to be a delicate lamb, sipping quietly daintily on sugar water. with care asking. if the hurricane hit yesterday.

whispers around, i'm pretty don't you think. back straight both hands upon ceramics shakes her head slightly sets the cup down and laughs tossing back a heavy skull, then drops it on the counter. still it shakes from side to side. putting on sunglasses fist on the chin a finger extends to the lip melodramatically thoughtful. and from her mouth comes muttering. eyebrows down to look confused. straightens up again and throws a hand behind her. lights a mentholated cigarette. takes the glasses off, with eyes alarmed and opened widely, her mouth puckers as the distant deep questions excrete from a brain, supposedly. she's asking. about the existence of a so-called "johnny cash."

she looks put together and clean. a pretty little woman with small hands that move with grace when not flailing. scrunches her nose, she is chuckling. to herself and no one else now.

stepping outside she is standing there asking me for bandages. pouring peroxide on her blood soaked foot i ask a name, and am apologizing for the pain as her toes begin to foam and bubble over infection. hesitating looking towards the sky as if she can't remember proclaims her name is "sun" suspiciously then says, what is pain, but a feeling. i say lady i guess.


+++++


loved too much to talk anymore.
this is the last supper
for now i fast
to find a final resting place

of sorts

be at ease
lie down in a new body
a brighter mind

reiterating
i know what now is
and don't enjoy it
in so many words
this is loneliness
self-reliance seems so far from here
justification a joke
and often times the thief of truth
what a cloud
a haze this life is
i see it so clearly
taking place before my eyes
and why is grief
its cause and existence
the daily threats of nothing
in particular
here with simple folk

i feel shame. the kind that comes from just existing.


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suzy after

nothing substantial
just talking
you don't even have to read this
pathetic lamenting over past nothings
a giant glass of gin at the table
next to the phone no one calls
i am nobody's no one
and know they are there
at their parties with their people
laughing and such
even when they've dismissed it
say they hate it
despise that little town
at their parties
with their people
i'm lamentic
that's not a real word
being bitter
wishing i had the gumption
to off myself
knowing i never will
whatahack
why does this seem so never-ending
why am i so impatient
i don't get it
and all its shadowy sadness
i don't even have a drinking buddy
cultivating contrived better times
my eyes close so tightly
my heart aches
there's a dead man
inside this chest cavity
rolling in his grave
over how i'm reacting
he'd be so ashamed
were he still breathing


+++++


they say they don't mean anything
these tornado dreams
i believe them
but am under the impression
that there's more to it than i think
either that
or these thoughts simply make for more


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