receipt scribble

things found in my bag on busted up crinkled pieces of scratch paper and receipts

Sunday, April 1, 2012


this one is a story...

in the basement of that place, the echo-ey concrete,
the click clack of your shoes/sneakers no less on the floor.
The dirty, dark other rooms,
mysterious, and feeling like a scene from a cheap horror film.
first person filmed.
someone might scream in a minute.
this is where my heart snaps and my head yells "RUN!"

this is not a horror story.
in fact, there is little, even, of suspense.
it is a measure. a test.
of my weakness.
i went down there in search of a fix.

fix nixed like a ton of bricks as your bag of tricks and your thumb and finger clicks. rub your chest quick, with Vicks. don't mix the licks.

its paramount.

click clack-your shoes
snip snap-my heart

and i'm still here.
i'm not running.
why am i not running?

i'm drinking you up,
weaving the threads,
tongue, cheek, teeth.
leaving the dregs.

its what i do.
YOU untangle the webs.

i am not good. i just wanted some of you to feel high.

and now the snow is here, stealing my spring.

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