We speak to them like children, cats who take to unmade beds and people living out Goya’s use of colour too much, mouths saying carefully, folded unexpectedly as pjamas on the top shelf of the closet. Sunday morning we sleep through the second half of a holiday parade marching just past the perimeter of my roof-top courtyard—the first half waking us with band after American high school band. A night later and it’s Buffalo ‘66, rum and cokes, left over shrimp chow mein and beef chow fun from the night before, reheated in the oven, amber glass. Another night and two Boston cream donuts—, we're sober, minus the pot, my smoking both kinds, him only one. Fucking on pot, tight joints, is for pin points of interest, localized body. Well, any opinions?
Posted by caroline at May 24, 2006 2:19 PMI want to localize your body. Again and again. Like when, in the rainy winter, I groped your booted calf.
DIRRTY. Like Xtina.
Xavier
I don't think I can make the font big enough in this here pop-up land, but:
\\\HOT///
other than that:
you've got it localized to yet another continent, pulled strings. cued up.
Posted by: caroline at May 25, 2006 12:13 PM