#4

View:

Words: As I nurse a tree-borne concussion and remember the mystical properties of storytelling, claws and all, I am also recalling the seven voodoo nights that I have experienced and seen the dark grow legs for, which go as follows, when 1. we perched like flirting birds on the abandoned tannery rooftop and guessed at each other's lies, 2. strangers let me read their palms in a filthy apartment and looked at me shocked, as if I knew and wasn't only guessing, 3. everyone in Iowa City had a dance partner except me, 4. saying ". . ." on the Big Bay Pier under that celestial whitewash, I'm so ugly just kill me!, 5. I cradled a head diorama of Mesa, Arizona and missed your mouth, 6. cloud-blind secrets gushed out of my jaw and someone asked me where was my sensitivity, 7. the inland times that cocooned me in solitude and really were more important than nights with hands and hips, teaching me that yes I am inoperable but perhaps better off, and let the dark beat you, and don't dance like no one is watching, instead dance like only a few people are watching and they have paid good money for it and they took public transit to get here or walked uphill and they instinctively want to love you but only if you're good enough and what if you're not good enough, hm?

Music: Mesa by kohwi