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{default setting on my neurosis} coleen shin For the last time, how does it go, slow fast, merciful, me full of waste, bitter weed an idea quickly, before the script is written the play, played out, the house, sold I farmed once, like a jew girl during a war (the war) in secret wanting it to taste furtive wanting secrets that wouldn't be cold peppers and dill seed hidden by flowers My body is wet, injured, pale my fingers are fugitive, slipping on fever tracing mission statements on shower curtains dialing heavy black telephones Men, have me, had me, heroes like the ones who made it home milk-eyed blind as billboards always sicker than they let on my kind of panic, my ode to father One thousand belted out songs ago I knew the sky was blue science and rubble fires that burn those planets close enough to metal and cutting plains, sharp hostels I wondered, when wonder was allowed if hell was there, a population of spirit brides lonely children wished and sang to from backyards from sleeping porches and evening car rides I worry too much, twist the gold ring rattle the brass knobs, change the station constantly open windows to tempt the insane slow, it goes slow, only sleep speeds, I know |
