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Escape

I evaded that trap, 8 am, begging, food, pennies rattling. Why did I not give anything

We condemn escapism always, abstract, is it destruction or is it just us, wet, cold, breathing, needing?

What’s so different between a housewife in her Danielle Steele and a sans-abri in his bottle of Bordeaux?

Tell me. What flows through our veins?

Question 1, question 2, question 3

and in between I’m writing again

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e e cummings

may i feel said he
(i’ll squeal said she
just once said he)
it’s fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let’s go said he
not too far said she
what’s too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you’re willing said he
(but you’re killing said she

but it’s life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don’t stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you’re divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

Moon City

It was a cry we heard ringing, clinging, wrapping itself around the lampposts, streaming into, through, the cemetery, onwards to lonely widowers petting their lonely dogs, covered, shuttered, until their early morning walk together.

And no, I don’t think that’s the status quo, and no, it was a desperate cry; maybe a happy drunken one on a Friday night, standing in for the beer-fueled moment of invincibility, maybe a pain-filled one of someone losing their insides as they twist and turn out of their throat…

Whatever it was, it startled us from our stillness, from our warmed cocoon of quiet, and jolted us into the street with the cry, with the crier, with the crying, and it took us a minute to reassure ourselves that it was indeed, coming from the street, and not from some dark twisted place deep within us.

Plat du Jour

It might be a piece of shrapnel, or the muted sound of a voice recorder, but I argue for some proof that we once felt this way, that the rocks along this path won’t turn my feet into gravel and brain to weeds. Give me dirty fingerprints, a tear in my dress, avocado stains, a pillow that smells like sun, or a letter, yes, a letter.
Yes, the light is soft here, yes, the coffee tastes like salvation, yes, I work, yes, you work, yes, yes, yes, yes…

Tryst

When my mind curdles and breathing seems a bit more difficult, it’s that particular sunlight flooding the car. An empty road, need of paving, bending trees giving me whiplash, and shelter shelter shelter shelter shelter in the dark, under the covers, later.

Splash

Life is here.

Life here is still life and it stays lifelike in front of my eyes. It resembles everything that’s been said already and then it resembles nothing. The warm, candid nothing that’s like a bird’s feathers, like comfort, like some remnants of home, like a familiar garden.

It’s good to have green again, in the potted plant, in my scarf, in your irises. I know that colors fade and nothing lasts and that nobody can support that much weight. I know that my grandma’s strawberry patch has long been sold and reappropriated like her mind. I know these things, but I still can’t seem to stop myself from tearily living them.