JAGGED CAN BOY, soaking there.
Wouldn't you feel better if you were able to see white, milky dresses, a small curl of hair by the
forehead, that slow wake of that old music which is still clicking on the temple. It's all good. It's all about
breathing. Smelling like butter, like back skin, like dunking heads in water. That clicking, then the still
moaning that's all up in your head, like a sinky boat, all creaks and wafting motion and
swollen plump wood. The small hairs at your eye's level, touching your nose, attached to another
person's chest, and the breakdown of some song or another is gumming its way through. Through and
through and through.
Good lord what a long drive will do, all its pleasantness and promises and weeds, purple
weeds and green ones all flowing on, but thin as milk. Milk dresses, the heavy cream in French pressed
coffee. Small pieces of paper stuffed in harsh old screen doors say, "While in Pennsylvania I Will Miss",
(a reference to a simlilar note, left for a similar person, from a not so similar man),
not knowing why it reminds you of some summer at a beach, of soft morning hair and roughing faces,
the green film that crusts inside my eyes and the fingers that clean them out again.