[ w/ matte black medium format grid & various inks / various shards ]
3am, signs of life: sunflower seed hull, shoelace. crack of fire, pop of mechanisms.
excessive survey of potential need. call the number on the side of the building,
it rings forever. i am the woman who works everywhere / walks everywhere. walked
to the bar i mean walked to the bus, boarded the bus, etc. if my mother left
right now maybe i could have a mother i would try very hard. floating around just
letting things happen. shitty acoustic, empty seats. hand me a temporary tattoo.
give me a dollar for the jukebox. just me & a beer & my greyhound knees.
at some point today it becomes spring, at another the sun and the moon get
in each other’s way. it’s so easy to cry on the greyhound.
//
cubicles were made for crying. each way you go about it
the sound is eaten by the walls but no one knows what the walls do with it.
what about everything i wrote down for later. just me & a reliable bruise.
what to expect when you’re expecting to be sober. seltzer. candor. calisthenics.
what about everything i wrote down for later. oh gawd what about everything i
wrote down i mean i make so many lists you would roll, etc. what about everything.
what about too few miles on the bike path / too many miles of nerve fibers. what
can i say, the skin’s elasticity has a limit and there i thought i was ready to stretch,
3am is never not on my mind even if we’re barely acquainted, baffled.
“cubicles were made for crying”: has this truly never been said before?? it feels like the truest thing ever said.
From the very opening line!!!!!!!