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June 29, 2004 - 10:31 p.m.

Grate

So much to not say�

I think my fantasy life is eating me� and I always realize too late that I�ve been consumed by thoughts inappropriate and the like�

Like� things I shouldn�t mention.

My face, tight from just washing� feels like the glue we used to put on our finger tips and palms in elementary school and peel off�

Stretched tight like Elmers�

And my chest aches like I�ve been trying to take too many deep breaths.

I wonder at how this world seems to be getting so small, when I know that we claim to �know� it is expanding.

I can�t escape its smallness

And the books on my shelves wave their insistent pages at me� beggin to be read

And I want to but the type written word beckons so strong�

And I am so weak.

I want to melt into the � anything but bed,

Because there I just lie, and lie.

And want to write all the swirling words down..

I think about all the connections, like spark plugs, jumping electricity, some connecting� others failing.. but we try to ram prongs into the right holes.. three holes, or two, fingers, sprockets, and the violence of everyday connections never escapes my notice.

I punch the keys and try to keep from smiling at the melodrama

My life as I notice it� and she has gotten hotter. I see it and it never ceases to surprise me. Doesn�t matter that it would and should never happen. I don�t really care,

Except in my head.

I see these checker boards, drawn out, built out of fishnet and keys.. with their little contrasting letters� and I remember that I don�t remember how to say it anymore� type, to type� not in French, tapper? Certainly not in Portuguese�

The only word is clavicle.. ever have words that stick in your mind and you don�t know what makes them grate there� like pieces of thought slipping through the small round holes� into your memory.. your speech, your skin� the word slides itself, fills itself into the space on the other side of the metal. And I am left with a piece of it� waiting to be what? Tossed into a salad, swallowed? Digested? Shaken and not stirred into a martini? A twist. It is a twist� of thought. Sad eyes look up. Into the next frame of mind.

 

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