there are sirens in the east. there are sirens
in the east and i really should be doing my homework,
but tell me, dinah, how does one possibly pay
attention to a book with no pictures in it, or a
picture at all? picture perfect whoorled leaf girl...
there is a part of me, the elastic side, that
stretches over everything, that knows i could be as
pretty as any of them, or as witty, or as
intelligent--i just choose not to, that's what i tell
myself--knowledge devours vast acres of sensibility
and emotion, until nothing is felt anymore. the
cumbersome numbness of too much information drowning
out all of the circuits and refusing to allow safe
passage through the gray matter well. i've pinpointed
leather, i've worn it in pouches, i've bathed in it,
but it never made my flesh any less soft, my heart
any more worn. the wrinkles faded out with age, saved
those in time, and i folded them perfectly. lick the
lips and cut another card--i bleed through the
punctuation marks with a felt tip and murder the
multiplication tables to make way for another
revolution, the binary system of second star to the
right...neverland is just another planet. here, with
a click of my shoes, i could send you to oz, but i
won't. i can't anymore. it's too late. that moment
faded when they pushed the brick through, when they
shattered the walls of looking glass house and left
the jabberwock bleeding--what is it they say? those
who live in porcelian hearts shouldn't throw stones?
they ought to try cinnamon instead, it would be more
sensible. i've lost it, those circular bruises, but
the scars are still there in the right light, the
little white slash marks of centuries past glaring
up at me in entropy from the first few rays of
spring...february. always february. perhaps it's time
to go hunt down a duck...not to shoot, except maybe
pictures of. hunting season. but i don't miss her. he
sits there and watches me curled up in a haphazard
fetal blue mumbling something about beauty and hours,
tucking his hair back behind his ears and curling his
toes under...he blinks. he watches. a shimmer of
wings to bring smiles on the lips and hearts of all
children--he's really not god and definitely not a
mother, but he still has that kind of power. it comes
from keys, methinks, or cosmic configurations. i can
already see him sleeping, though it hasn't happened
yet...his eyebrows fade and a translucent veil
appears over him and sometimes i get scared maybe
he'll disappear (or maybe they'll turn the fog
machines on--chiefs are often right.) i can still
smile about it. i can still laugh, and i didn't even
have to know jesus to do it. or the gigantic moth
who pretends to be robert smith.
