oh, renoir

nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission
all i can hear around on four sides is the sound of paint rollers. smells like teen spirit. it smells. i'm letting go.

textual relations/e-ruptions
you smell like wet sweat. but maybe it's not you. maybe it's just clothes. maybe it's just wool. the blue socks you're wearing in a soviet-era high-rise. i find you on the balcony. it's raining. sipping something hot, you put down yr mug and let breathsteam slip from yr mouth in my direction. i shiver. notes from a piano being lackadaisically plucked waft through open sliding glass door and get lost in drops. yr sentences are short, but more importantly, succinct. the balcony is furnished with two chairs and a table. we make them face each other. when i was young and the chairs were swings, this was called banana. but now when i hear banana, i think of something else.

in dreams (july)
why i don't work in orgies
phone call from a foreign country
losing the game and loving it

and it ain't often enough
ain't often
show me a movie
and i'll show you an oven

dream girls keep giving me mystery drugs that are like tiny sparklers you swallow whole. the other drugs keep burning holes in the carpet and i'm shuttling between the record store and the gay bar and the loft apartment, like this one, but
cathedral ceilings
roller skates
elevators
for the mood, too.

i'm asleep on the beach
skinny elbows
pierce the sky

aj is replicating herself by taking potion and walking through a revolving door, but every time she does it, she gets older. i trip on acid in this complicated way that requires deciphering a code on the back of a box and eating the contents dry, pouring the rest out. really intense, really fast, like i feel like a chief or something, and then all of a sudden so much time has passed.

mom is sprawled long on a lawn in a wedding dress and someone is dying in a car.

mom is appalled by my dirty ears.

grandma walters' ghost.

i'm under arrest by the national gov't for something i did on the internet. i'm running like a fugitive as i'm followed electronically. i give in so easily. why? cuz fighting is exhausting, especially losing battles. prolly has something to do with going invisible and sending erotica over e-mail. also it's like my biggest fear—being in trouble for you don't exactly know what or how you did it.

talking to my grandmother about the life choices i've made.