Friday, February 12, 2010

to a young french boy.

my heart burns from all the cigarettes that have been dropped into my stomach. i've been staring too hard at my conscience, which sits in front of me, behind a hard, wooden desk. it wears red vans sneakers so that when it puts its feet together they make a canvas heart. not the kind of canvas on which to paint but rather at which to regard with confusion, asking the soul, "is this what art should be?" better not to know. better to reach down, so deeply inside, pull out some stale tobacco, and light the fire. then when it burns cover it with all your city scarves and watch the frayed edges tremble with heartbeat. is it there, or is it the foreground of some bigger picture? plaid with conflicting desires. cold mint wind blows my hair back and i know it's time to change my seasons, to put my sun up higher this time. maybe the moon won't see. if i could write a whole novel of things i don't refuse to see, of slices of my hues that i am ready to know, i should.

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