the composer has stepped into fire

in chile i met a llama wearing an itty bitty teeny tiny sombrero.

last night at about four a.m. this old drunk lady came out of nowhere and walked up to me and khalilah, who were outside of a bar having a beer. she was dressed in semiformal attire and holding an American Idol videogame microphone. she proceeded to shout at us about how she looked 33 but was really 43 and then started singing "WOOAHOH BLACK BETTY BAM-A-LAM WOAHOH BLACK BETTY BAM-A-LAM" and clapping and dancing in circles.

sun chips and coffee tastes like hot dogs.

in case of fire

as the house burned i tried to save
time in disposing of our things.
i was able to throw a few in through the living room window.
the gun you kept wrapped in blankets melted down into a soft bullet.
the antibiotics, the lists, the clocks.
i waited for the first floor to fold, and i felt taller,
had to bend down to look into the window of our room.
i kicked in your books, journals, pictures, etc.
like roaches off the porch.
the roof came down and i put my foot through,
making room for frozen meats and the dog.
i tried to put out the
rain with matches.
i was able to smooth the ashes into the ground.

-----
when i finally slept

in this one you grow fangs and i can't even
understand what you are saying.
you are angry and i wake up with a headache
to you swallowing
and the fangs.

in this one your teeth turn to steel
and you start to say something
but the shrill scratch of steel on steel just
drowns you out
and something explodes behind my jaw.

in this one i hand you an apple
and your teeth shatter,
and as i try to pry the pieces from the floor planks
i can't hear any more but you say something
about something has to change.

me, tito, maggie, khalilah - sunday in new orleans - buying hotpants before buying 2 gallons of daiquiris and heading to a stranger's pool

tyra would be so. proud.



at the hospital, waiting to visit leah and amy. in chairs made for babies.


sometimes we double up.

sitting at a desk five days a week from nine to five is going to eventually make me gouge out my own two eyeballs.

BUT IT JUST SEEMED SO GLAMOROUS WHEN DOLLY PARTON DID IT.

oh hey, read this: FALSE magazine. the whole issue is posted online there. or if you're in atlanta, it's all over the city in various hip coffeeshops and independent businesses.

my article's there, along with a bunch of other great pieces.

( my article/Space as Warfare )

nothing like a good bout of exhaustion and extreme insecurity to send me spiraling.

yeeeeeeeeeeeah i'm pretty unacceptable.

this is going to work well, i think. i like it here.

decatur is what i wanted it to be; everything is close, colorful, and fast food is non-existent. downtown atlanta is three blocks and a train away. agnes scott is so fancy.

just a bicycle and a sense of direction and i think i'll be set.

oh god, but right now i just want to get back to baton rouge. it would be different if i had my own legs, but i'm stranded in the suburbs in this immaculate house. (it's great, don't get me wrong, but. i made my bed this morning out of guilt?)

i'm back tuesday afternoon. i dont know. i'm bored and my phone's not ringing.

i miss you the most.

oh this hair is not gonna make it through the night. no sir.


edit
yeah....yeah. i have a trashcan full of hair. GOD DAMNIT. whoopsy.