winter,it was us in winterwhich meant the cold snuffedshadows and long darkdays and firelit smiles -the long stretch of yarnundercovers - rolling overon tummies bare with warmthalgae'd shutters before the striking greens,and troweling your hair backin a slough of dampness,afternoons stagnant likerefrigerated white wines,raining down sheets ofstatic.and all the things we are addicted to,like the feel of a good book, or a goodfire, or a good whiskey,that settle into us little rilingmoments of joyin a seemingly long thick expanse of timespent counting thread skeletonsagainst ship lantern mornings,and everythingin you wanting tocurl up in yourfavorite coffee mugand sleep for a thousand years.
plasticthere is plastic turning over and over outside, and the leaves are turning tea colored and curling like potato paper-skins. you follow me around the block and we look a little more windy each time. we are fighting circles that tell us nothing ever changes - your legs and my curls would tell us different - but people are always surprised to see us walking the same way, or it seems the same to them, and we are like those slightly altered figurines that come to life when they thumb the pageswe feel as if we are just origami diagrams gummy-tacked together - god, how, how are we alive - and we are creating, or shifting like stairways that shift in m.c. escher diagrams. there is no moment where we can just hail and stop - we've tried, but the moon keeps lassoing our waters with its long armsit is all like a scientist telling us there's more than one cause - they're getting closer to the truth, but we're in a world of doctors who are sure there's only one cure, which never made any sense -
paper mache, and...you've got cinnamon in your hair and the folds of you look like cinnamon too. they've been ground and ground down, and burned, and redusted and polished to look like a canvas unwrinkled, but you've been bent and bent again, and you are just your own paper mache project, except the illusion is not in the folds, but in the shadows.it is the time of day where all the spiderwebs are visible - long slanting strings crossed over each other and a little confused about showing themselves, timidly flashing us with their undercoats, then dashing away. it is sort of like how strangers disappear around corners, leaving a tail of cloth, a foot halfway towards disappearing.sometimes a moment can borrow your breath and hold it hostage, pickling it in jars just out of reach. it's that feeling you get when you close your eyes and the music skips - you feel as if you skip with it, the skin of you retreating a little bit, a shockwave of blackness behind your eyes.this is one of those moments, the beau