dear steamboat captain, my spit tastes sick and I miss my childhood love. I am living in a city that is both lush and suspicious. sometimes it’s warm but often it’s vicious. sometimes I wonder if the river isn’t the only honest thing I encounter. usually during the day I wander, and during the night I tend to wear diamonds and laugh wearily. my eyes will beckon. I’m blinded by sleep. I’ve become a master of to kiss and vanish. some people remember how to ache or give blessings or say something tangible. most people just talk too much. most people are just a talking mouth that gets around. many people are fiscally conservative when it doesn’t come to cheeses or thousand dollar pocket squares. there are too many people you shouldn’t be giving your money to, including the mediocre fiddlers, however, I’ve always liked people who let music trip around unbidden. whatever. I’ll be the patron saint of live musicians. but that isn’t what I was trying to tell you. I’m blinded by sleep. I’ve never been acquainted with the back of my hand. I often wonder what the hell is going on. sometimes I’ve had too much wine. most one time I held your body was warm times I haven’t had enough.
my glass is always it was only the rest of you slipped away
slipped quietly into the night, head bowed
the sex comes from a tube in the arm.
Often does my contentment crumble spontaneously, like mud-bricks in the hat in hand. Egyptian sun. It is perplexing to rebuild at these times. I can only wait in my chair, nonchalantly, and try to catch the solution out of the corner of my eye. I’m blinded by sleep. I’m blinded by sleep. sincerely, isis
often I wonder if we can ever love the way we did at sixteen.
Steps Magazine's second Fall semester issue.