The Problem With Any Sort of Change
She goes swimming in a new pool. The chlorine sucks the color from her hair and leaves green streaked across her upper lip. We sneak ice into a hot tub and hold melting contests. Old peanut shells overflow from jacket pockets. The diving board is a plank of wood draped over an open sewer grate.
Your hair grew six inches in the wrong direction. The dress once fit, but now it is left draped on the back of a chair.
The time it takes to tie your shoes speeds up and slows down depending on the temperature.
She carries a pair of rusted pins in her pocket, just in case the world decides personality is best proven by a colorful tin trinket stabbed through cheap denim.
Car Jack
Birthday balloons are scarecrows floating through a backyard. She is under me and starving on half-pills and birth control patches.
The weight of iron lungs cause patients to lose marathons. I walk between the shopping carts like church pews carved from redwood stumps.
They stole his stereo with his own screwdriver then left the equipment three blocks away.
There are no broken windows in paradise and locks work just as well underwater.
We live with high ceilings and trust the aluminum ventilation pipes that run through our closets to gather mothballs and sweater lint. The table is a jam session of paint and lead-based plates.
It's Difficult to Understand Irony With a Bone Saw Halfway Through Your Femur
The Chinese restaurant cooks spaghetti and a sign on the front door proclaims false advertising over false gods. Snakes of broken rope roll from exhaust pipes. I fry the leftovers of my fingertips. We disappear in a collage of finger prints and mug shots. Ain't nobody knows dirty better than crows do. Rotting banana peels litter the floor like puppies in a pet store.
My socks poke holes in her cartilage and she loops rusted soda tabs to dangle as rhinestone earrings. There is a bum down the street that is able to count deeper depths of the sewer than any professional rat.
Let cheap hookers be our guide. Their purses are fat with used condom wrappers and baby books.
I hiccup my first name and write my last on the lenses of sunglasses.
She goes swimming in a new pool. The chlorine sucks the color from her hair and leaves green streaked across her upper lip. We sneak ice into a hot tub and hold melting contests. Old peanut shells overflow from jacket pockets. The diving board is a plank of wood draped over an open sewer grate.
Your hair grew six inches in the wrong direction. The dress once fit, but now it is left draped on the back of a chair.
The time it takes to tie your shoes speeds up and slows down depending on the temperature.
She carries a pair of rusted pins in her pocket, just in case the world decides personality is best proven by a colorful tin trinket stabbed through cheap denim.
Car Jack
Birthday balloons are scarecrows floating through a backyard. She is under me and starving on half-pills and birth control patches.
The weight of iron lungs cause patients to lose marathons. I walk between the shopping carts like church pews carved from redwood stumps.
They stole his stereo with his own screwdriver then left the equipment three blocks away.
There are no broken windows in paradise and locks work just as well underwater.
We live with high ceilings and trust the aluminum ventilation pipes that run through our closets to gather mothballs and sweater lint. The table is a jam session of paint and lead-based plates.
It's Difficult to Understand Irony With a Bone Saw Halfway Through Your Femur
The Chinese restaurant cooks spaghetti and a sign on the front door proclaims false advertising over false gods. Snakes of broken rope roll from exhaust pipes. I fry the leftovers of my fingertips. We disappear in a collage of finger prints and mug shots. Ain't nobody knows dirty better than crows do. Rotting banana peels litter the floor like puppies in a pet store.
My socks poke holes in her cartilage and she loops rusted soda tabs to dangle as rhinestone earrings. There is a bum down the street that is able to count deeper depths of the sewer than any professional rat.
Let cheap hookers be our guide. Their purses are fat with used condom wrappers and baby books.
I hiccup my first name and write my last on the lenses of sunglasses.
About the Author
