it's 6 o clock and i'm already uncomfortable in the silence. smog and concrete give way to sprawl. i really hate hearing myself think and no matter how hard i try, crickets will never be car horns or the screams of slowly dying dreams. wine, wicker, white and blue. forget, regret- that's what jonathan larson would've done. just roll down the windows and drown in the fresh, forgiving, foreign tide. shorts and t shirts and flip flops don't leave much to the imagination. [glance up contemplatively] bracelets and anklets. tacky and cheap. they'll do. or maybe beaten up, beachy high tops.
daughter of dionysus, son of Beats and the beaten: give me safety and solitude and sanity on the sand and a pair of rose colored glasses. a notebook to hide in, a pen for more than marking. give me solace in the sun and sleep. a bath and rest. wash it all away with watercolors, pastels, khaki, and tans. scars are not bruises that wash off with time and salt water .
scrub scrub scrub
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