limp critic of my own measly projects, prospects, predisposed to running in place i watch the scenery change but not the shape of my feet. all this running is making my feet skinnier. muscle and bone cling to each other under my thin membrane of skin, the arches rising up and pushing against gravity like a woman arches under a silk sheet, a bent-over in a long robe, in a dream i took a staircase out that i didn't take in, running in place my mind wanders like a viny plant, an albatross: there's always more than one way out of a place
helpmeet-less days, nights are less meet-less, my dreams are infused with characters real and imagined. when i am wedded to the Sentence. when i am waiting to find out what i'm bad at. when i am fiddling with the dial on the radio, fine-tuning my reception to the land of the ground that surrounds me and my flimsy wishes. i stir the concoction in the latest pot. nothing sticks or melts, Simmer-Things that i do best. i do my best work when the moon is about to drop out of the sky. the blackened silhouette of trees, charred in shadow as if in dream where nothing leaves the ground. my premonition stands to be corrected. i am the judge and the jury and the girl on the bench, lying on the bible to worm around testifying myself. a testament to my insensibilities, secrets of predictability, i fidget my toes under the witness stand, dreaming my skin to run, to Find something, to Mean something, to staircase-out my dream-feet
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