1:20 p.m. - 12/31/01
tracing.
[atoms listen with their purple cells and don't ask the Unsure what it means- this swift confused reality]
::the poem::
yes I was searching that day
like the rest - this
stream of consciousness
exploration left me gagging
with no breath
left - me to swing from
the tattered ladders of
my own braids
until the final rhythm fades
and she can once again write
letters. that's all we ever write
I said - our out-of-order abcs.
dear dementia amid the playground anarchy
dear blue scratches, the back
of a brand-new CD
dear boy with the grown woman's face
a lauging empty space, encompassing
dear , flee ing into the introspection
no direction only letters once again
misplaced, searching for order inside
a distorted grace. and if I were to
face the music it might deafen me.
so yes i danced pointe on freedom's
heels that day, the wind begged in
low baritone that I would run away
but a girl so afraid of falling will
never have the will to jump-
I run instead,
through the hard-edged corners of my head
the scratches of memory bleed
like braids, like ladders, blue CDs
like need.
c.
�
�
