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skonen_bladesShe’s a plane ticket day-job earthquake wearing a fire engine and calling herself a beer bottle. I’m no judge of paper mache but as the future goes, she etches smoke onto mirrors with her brilliance. She’s the severed arm of justice hanging lopsided in the senate’s butchered house. Every upside-down umbrella knows just how she feels. A satellite dish for candy from German parades. She’s the new hopeful contestant wrapped in electric baby blankets, guessing the prices of future paths for prizes and punishments. Rip through the electrician’s tape that guards the soul of your guardian angel and make a pudding out of our plans.
Go ahead. Bake me in an oven. I won’t tell. I’ll tell your mother you stayed over at a friend’s house. Tonight, I’ll be gardener and you be the hedge that needs taming. Lick the bars on my zoo. Be my too-tight scarf. Test out the brakes that I cut the lines to in the bath fifteen years ago. I’ll show you how to handle broken glass without cutting yourself. You’ll find out that scar tissue is more tender than the skin you were born with.
My head’s like a camera. Every memory’s a negative. I have to become it’s opposite to see it as a happy day. I’m happy when things are bad because I know that means that good things are on the way. I’m happy when things are good because I know bad things are on the way and I like the feelings that they bring. I’m an exhibit with no more feeling that evidence used in a courtroom. The ice-blown eyes of a dead girl found during the March thaw. The least-used strings in a piano. My nose bleeds into your morning cereal. I am the news.
This smile is a skeleton key that’s unlocked too many hotel rooms. The tennis-player logo scoffing at my hopes manages to keep the success stories down in the basement. I laugh at my confidence whenever it surfaces. I’ll tell you the story of inner world wars conducted over summer vacations.
Come close. I’ll whisper so you can hear me this time. I’ll pour whatever truth I have left into your seashell ears.
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Go ahead. Bake me in an oven. I won’t tell. I’ll tell your mother you stayed over at a friend’s house. Tonight, I’ll be gardener and you be the hedge that needs taming. Lick the bars on my zoo. Be my too-tight scarf. Test out the brakes that I cut the lines to in the bath fifteen years ago. I’ll show you how to handle broken glass without cutting yourself. You’ll find out that scar tissue is more tender than the skin you were born with.
My head’s like a camera. Every memory’s a negative. I have to become it’s opposite to see it as a happy day. I’m happy when things are bad because I know that means that good things are on the way. I’m happy when things are good because I know bad things are on the way and I like the feelings that they bring. I’m an exhibit with no more feeling that evidence used in a courtroom. The ice-blown eyes of a dead girl found during the March thaw. The least-used strings in a piano. My nose bleeds into your morning cereal. I am the news.
This smile is a skeleton key that’s unlocked too many hotel rooms. The tennis-player logo scoffing at my hopes manages to keep the success stories down in the basement. I laugh at my confidence whenever it surfaces. I’ll tell you the story of inner world wars conducted over summer vacations.
Come close. I’ll whisper so you can hear me this time. I’ll pour whatever truth I have left into your seashell ears.
tags