free flowing chaosI see garage sales vending ghosts in yellowed squares and rectangles. Was always their presence so somber, or did their faces fall as the memories of their breaths crumbled with the setting sun? Sad, hollow, they know their forever future to be in 2-dimensional imagination, sold in a shoebox for buttons and dimes. Will I become a similar ghost, seeing through coffee stains and fingerprints, cracks across my face, whispering in chemicalled paper long after I have fallen down in ashes around the roseberry bush
Sometimes she dreams in paper and awakens with clean metallic cuts. As cranes flap through the tissue paper sky, snowflakes cut with dagger sharp and crooked edges like rotting teeth
into my dry flaking skin, crawling and crumpling. I'll lick my fingers to bring them alive, and they hang limp and torn from the heavy moisture.
What do you call the fish in your aquarium eyes in your mind so carefree, innocent, stupid and alive
These textures are sharp and define