Ti-STN

I’m unable to just let this go.

A tennis court of possibilities. Silver blockade. To press against it, is to step back with new squares. I make the fuel box louder as wires are pulled back into confines, clear the exits, man, the mother lode has descended. Red clay, blue bottle saran wrap skies, one bright ball, long stretches of Madden and Harlem, a girl's hand, white rock meadow: a patch where a few trailers sleep.

Let’s penetrate this machine, and ignore the smoke. The smell of your black musk. The taste of a petite household, a house of holdings, of texas hold-ems, of dings and spouses.

I know three’s a charm because I’m always the median. Gravity can bite me.

You’re going to take the book from the shelf and open it; give me a swig, and a puff, and a sip, and a time warp, because excitement rains in small doses. Parallel streets with red bulbs and a broken head light that resembles a chip/memory – all massing and beating in my head. This is no Gothicism.

My eyes meet the candles through black reflection.
Warm cookies and orange.
Knot in my stomach from all the thinking. “Dark soma” “Monster” and crackhouses. Houses.
House is such an important word.

Take me downtown to the little strip with the perfect masculine counterparts.
Night on Bellaire.
Yes, yes, in a small black car and doll tinkles.

Am I this tiny? She thinks I am alone in my room at this hour. You know…you’ve got no Spanish tongue. Only a creamsicle orange-and-pink diary with a lock and frivolous "secrets" stowed inside, about lackluster relationship boys and all about the how-cutes and the outfits and the things in your locker.

///Too bad everything he said was within a dream.>

Difficult to depict the geometry of a dream with random image searches.