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Jessica Dawson |
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Hurricane season It's finally raining. The ground has cracked into pleased smiles, the grass is arched and ready - it's been flexing its anticipation all week. Tumbleweed garbage cans take flight. Raindrops assault my bare knees, filthy my polished heels, birth a new me from the morning's peeling layers. My heart waves like a second-hand flag against a graying sky. The office has all the ambience of a nursing home. I step outside; embrace the storm for a cigarette. Fountain I am a fountain, and today is the day for wishes. Give me your pocket change; I do not discriminate. But I am full of empty promise. You are a self-fulfilling prophesy and I am helpless. Breakdown Eyes like love letters, words like working lighthouses… With his index finger, he tugs on the pocket of my jeans, points out Venus. But the cities too bright, my eyes tired. God, I love the way he says the word "appreciate". I wonder how I can get him to say it again… He paints me orange, sketches me listless, and sings me triangular. At the moment of orgasm, I am as close as I've ever felt to my version of god. His lips are like icons. He's a well, bubbling up from my bedroom floor. Hey - splash a little water on your face. The sound of spilling sugar provokes me to tears. His voice jeers like an alarm clock all the way on the other side of the room. In the rust of afternoon, I see his pillars as fallen, reduced to dust. This fuck has eclipsed into boredom, has melted into something old and unnecessary. Define love. Then, quickly, explain solitude in a hundred words or less - but leave my name alone. Our last conversation clatters on the tiles of my memory. I cling in theory only, smile hypotheses, waiting for the bus, for the rain to start. Yellow light reflects forgotten features… No, we haven't spoken. [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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