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jane
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searching, foraging for the right note to this puzzling universe, seeking the right footsteps, following the sand trail of snails, creeping along in their shadowy nazi march. the plants stopped growing eons ago. cease this enveloping nonsense, it's all i can think about anymore. the dogs are growling every night at frights that hide in rainbows, daytime fevers, this is no longer a dream. one by one we're twitching faster, slurping away at some pornographic candy wrapper. bright colors is all we need, notebook paper recycled skin, flaking off with the history of centuries. even the pianos chuckle at the thought of a clean slate, no scales to turn to, scales of snakes or balances, scales in the key of b minor, scaling mountains, a larger scale. what's left to think about or dream about, to freewrite fondly, remembering days we laid in mud and oriental poppies escalated around our ears, we wore the crowns of thorns as children, when there were only theories and sugar bites, miniature wooden crosses for some passing rodent we took a liking to. the bars that hold us in, that's when they were built, only now they're made of felt, and we asked to be here. our only visceral reaction that we can conjure up is the gagging sensation when brushing our teeth.
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071231
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