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6:00 p.m. - 01/10/02
show me the way back to the garden...
The Gathered Breath of Two Deflated Girls

paging through catalogues
magazines smearing her vision
the way newsprint smears her
fingertips; her lips, not painted-
let alone aware of the right color-
begin frowning, drowning in
perfume ads that dull her senses
looking away searching for someday.
a way out of pouty-lipped emaciation
bohemia sold out to commercialism
leaving her lonely and supposedly
hungry for these overpriced clothes
temporarily hypnotized by one of those
magazines that, should she subscribe,
will mispell her name.

but no, she doesn't want the clothes
the same way tracy, traipsing through
the gravestones one autumn afternoon
felt the wind wind through her hair
and wanted nothing to do with death,
so fond was she of breath that she
let forth her belated scream and
walked back to the road
walked on with no one knowing,
this street curls back to where
the yellow grass is growing -
little ivy snakes pulling her in
a second, third, fourth, final time
but no, you don't understand,
tracy doesn't want death-
she likes parties where crepe paper curls from ceilings
she wants to touch the sky
my belated cry: I know this girl
she's craving flight
she doesn't want to die

girls at anorexic weights airbrushed
until, they too are blurred, like
the fates of every friend I claim
I can do nothing except keep writing
their name, keep tracing the letters
as they rang at the end of every note
she wrote me, tracing tracy, crepe paper,
watching the letters float out of reach.

one after another
one by one
catalogues waiting
for the moment I'm debating

am I lonely enough to buy their version of my name?

--

one should not post poetry so quickly after writing it, but if this were about my self-conscious censorship, there'd be no words to read.

chord

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