You are waiting.

And as you are waiting, you notice the crisp morning air, the way sounds carry themselves in such air, just as crisp, but also lazy, still sleepy. It is morning, early, just before sunrise. You can see the first glows of day break behind the apartment complexes in the distance. Cement and dust, blue and dawn shaded gold. You are standing on a corner with others, silent. One of them is from Guatemala, where his aunt is a movie star. When he smiles, the gold cap in the front part of his lower jaw is dull. He is wearing worn jeans speckled with bits of plaster and paint, calloused hands tucked in the front pockets, grey sweater zipped halfway up, smudges at the elbows. His eyes are young, dark irises, chips of red from late night drinking at the edges, black hair cropped close at the sides. The other is older and understanding. He too had been somewhat important in his country, before he came to America. The older one listens and nods his head, speaking in a tone that is neither condescending nor lecturing. He is dressed in much the same way but is wearing a warmer jacket, zipped to the day’s growth on his neck, grey streaks in his longer hair.

You do not look that much different from them. Your skin is lighter, your hair is covering much of your face, scraggly, brushing your shoulders, black also. For a number of days, you have not shaved, and even if you are aware of each coarse hair on your cheek, you are not uncomfortable. The clothes you are in are worn thin and a size too large, jeans that have been patched with a back pocket torn, creases white at the knees and hips, a t-shirt with a ‘I love New York’ logo over a condensed skyline on its front, a barn jacket
taken from the Salvation Army, oil stained. You have done this before.

The three of you are standing on a corner of a main roadway that many trucks pass on, near a ramp for an expressway. The two are looking for work, falling silent when pick-up trucks, loaded with wood and workers turn, raising their hands. Both men indicate with their fingers how much they would work for, usually three, as the pick-ups swing by, hopeful, forced expressions of calm as the picks-ups continue without stopping, waiting a beat, each in their own minds, before resuming in Spanish. Three dollars an hour, and still one stops, says the older man, the younger man spews a number of litanies, contrasting his country and America. You do not speak with them and they do not mind, it is not unusual for someone to choose not to speak.

When you see the truck you have been waiting for, you wearily raise your hand, two fingers up. The younger and older man stare at you as the truck turns, then do the same. The truck stops, the three of you run, the two men smiling as they hop onto the back, greeting the few others that have gotten on before. In a flurry of hellos, how are yous, and good days, the two men you had been with also ask for how much the others are working for. A Mexican man, his hair unusually light brown, round face, dark, flat nose, crows feet at the corners of his eyes, spits, two, disgusted, but he is here. The chatter drifts into the rumbling and rattling of the truck, lost and dead. They are here to work, not for introductions. You do not take your eyes off the target, who is driving, for the first few minutes, there is always the chance you might be where you are not meant to.

It is a number of miles before the truck will reach its destination and it will not pick other workers. The target does not look into his rearview. You crouch along the bed of the truck, the others noticing your movement, most probably finding it strange, but say nothing and do not ask you questions that you would not answer. Kneeling at the back window of the cab, behind the driver, you remove the gun from the waistband of the jeans at the small of your back. One of the workers nervously mentions his children, but still nobody speaks to you. You imagine, despite their lack of vocal alarm, all their eyes are on you. With the gun in one hand, you shoulder off the coat, wrapping it around your arm, the barrel jutting out from it. The sun itself has not appeared over the horizon. You smash the back window, glass shattering, the truck jerks with the driver’s surprise, warm steel behind his ear, the driver steadies the wheel. He pays much attention to the rearview mirror.

“What the fuck is this shit? What the fuck? Who areWhat the fuck-” the target’s tone is indignant, so you gentle rub the muzzle against the hairline of his neck.

“..you are not in the position to ask questions.” you whisper, the target’s eyes jumping to the corners of his eyes, towards you, and the mirror and the road.

“Okay, okay, what’s this about, huh? What the fuck is this about?”

“‘..pay the men.”

“This about money? Some fuckin’ campecinos put you up to this, scrambled some pesos together for this shit?”

You repeat yourself, cocking the hammer of the gun, loud and harsh behind the target’s ear. “..pay the men.”

The target, one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a roll of bills, fives on the outside, hundreds within, a common practice. Just as the target is about to toss the roll through the broken window, you reach over and take it from his hands, the gun never leaving the target’s head. Without looking behind you, you roll the money in front of the worker’s feet, and without saying another word, they quietly divide the roll amongst themselves. The target, is at this point, driving in circles. One of the workers, the actress’ nephew from Guatemala, carefully taps your shoulder with your share.

“.. no gusto.” you wave the money away.

You tell the target to stop, the workers get off, stunned, perhaps feeling a bit dirtier even though they will be cleaner when they arrive home, with a week’s pays, instead of the normal, meager, day’s worth. They will not forget you and they will not speak of you, they do not understand much of this place called America, let alone your actions.

You tell the target to drive, you have a specific place in mind, and you tell where, and how to get there, warning him to not deviate from your instructions. By this point, the target is nervous, you have not answered any of his questions. The sun is bright, sharp, to your right. When you finally reach the car pound that does not open until nine, underneath a bridge, you tell the target to turn off the engine.

“..there was a general.” you begin.

“I have no fucking idea-this is crazy-”

“..who abandoned his troops-” your fingers touch his hair.

“Shut the fuck up, I don’t know-“, the target is beginning to sweat.

You grab the hair just above his neck tightly. “..it is impolite to-”

“You weren’t fucking there! You don’t know shit!”

“..your son was.”

The target’s eyes are wild, caged. Warm sun through the steel girders of the bridge.

You add, “..he lived.”

He breathes deeply, closing his eyes. “Where is, where is he?”

“”where you left him, legless.” you let go.

The target rests his head onto the steering wheel, shudders, sun and shadow across his back. His head snaps up, his back straightens, he turns to you. “Give me your gun.”

You shake your head.

“Give me the fucking gun!”, intense, determined, pathetic.

You raise the gun, inches from the target’s lips which have drawn themselves tightly. “..’don’t cry for me, Argentina’.”

“It was so long ago.” the target whispers, closing his eyes..

“..and imagine, he still cannot walk.”

The target opens his eyes, some new hope at the corners of his lips, “Tell him I love-”

You pull the trigger.

on your way out, her mouth was scarred screaming words
at you, but you could not hear her say anything
“how could you??” ,might have been one of them
or maybe that was the impression of her face that you remember when she stood
in the hallway between your bedroom and her kitchen, smashing
the plate behind your ear against the wall, flung at such a speed
that it had to have missed you, and the car keys
dropped from your fingertips, you were leaving
and she suddenly professed something that at one time you might have believed
it was love, but the words were awkward
to understand in a set of sentences you had her neatly in
and you had begun leaving her when she was squirming
to reach you.
she had managed the start of it with her body
in a room taking up so much space because you hadn’t been looking
only at her in the dark, she had insisted
on the door being closed and the bed sheets on the floor, a bottle to your lips,
it had not even been your room, a motel of her choosing, her forcing
your skin as to give you permission to drive into her
to such an extent that she was convinced
but you yourself had begun to question her and her taunting,
pushing herself into the cleft of your eye, the cubbyhole of your back
until you found that you could not breathe as she held
an ear to your throat where you made, what she called, “these funny little noises,
like you were about to die..”
that could not have been anything other than her coming and going of you.
always you had to struggle with her clothes and your wanting
and the twisted way in which she had slept with her back pushed against the wall,
so far away from your hands, and you realized that she was made up
solely of gestures.
“and what of it?” ,you had said
reaching down to pick up the keys along with the cigarette in your mouth
opening the last reason you had to keep moving
stretching the length between you and the bedroom, tearing her
to stand before you, another plate in her hand
but you went to her one last time, to break her
into tears and you hugged her still, moving the words away
from her mouth, your mouth to her ear, in the hallway
whispering, over and over, “..it’s over,
it’s over..”

You look in the mirror and it has grown on you: it’s getting older. The skin is different, darker, but not by shade. Darker because it is thicker, less bone can be seen.
It moves differently, it appeals to you and even though it is a complete stranger to you, it is a part of your life; it represents you and everyone recognizes it as you. Is this me?, you ask, in front of the mirror, regarding the skin, this you, this body that doesn’t feel like you, but that you like the feel of. You are different, you are immobile and every minute is spent on staring at a specific spot, intensely and in awe.
It is as if you are a surgeon in a morgue with a corpse-and despite the fact that you are not a pathologist-you are familiar with bodies, but this is a corpse, a once-was-a-body. You are in a morgue with a once-was-of-something-you-knew-of.
And, you, as a surgeon, while examining the corpse as if it was a living thing, find the things that do not make it body anymore, that which define it as a corpse. You want to know more of this once-was-what-you-knew-of but you are incapable, because you are who you are, in the wrong room with what you, only once, knew of.
To learn more than that, you have to be other than you, to become past that, a once-were also, and still be who you are. A doctor, a surgeon, a pathologist, but you leave the room with much effort.
This is how your eyes trace this skin, this set of flesh before you in the mirror, reflecting an other you, when you were equipt only to see yourself.
And with each entering and re-entering of this room, you are a little-less-of a surgeon, a little-more-of a pathologist. You leave to learn how to interpret this body by how others react to it. You learn of how it no longer breathes the same way, if at all. You learn that some of its reflexes are gone and it has acquired other characteristics you never knew of.
This newfound knowledge is neither pleasing nor comforting; nor is it disturbing or cause for panic.
You hardly believe what you see before you, is you, when the you, that you saw before, is no longer there to know as you. At one time, you were someone recognizable as, and to, yourself. You are still you, but you do not know yourself anymore. You are there replacing what you were because the texture has changed, it is suddenly other than the minute changes you have grown accustomed to, as you, before the you you see in the mirror. You are you that no longer is you. This is you, in the mirror. The skin is getting older.

..and there was no one to talk to me
i had hoped so,
it was preposterous
to lie, even if it didn’t happen
in any way i would have told it.
at least, Martha didn’t
mention it
in the morning
or perhaps she hadn’t noticed
it: she had mentioned that she was going
blind
but i didn’t believe her, eagle eyes she had
green and blue and gray and hungry, but now old
sitting still
by the radio, waiting for the mystery play
they stopped playing twenty years ago
..or had that been Jerry, before he went down to Florida
for the other glass
eye
to be put in
“fitted, they said..” he spit and hacked and shook
“..like it’s fit to do that.”
and he ran his hand over his cane, the other tight
around the handle, pressing his lips white
..i don’t think it matters, at least the moment
when i had gotten up
and noticed it staring at me:
a bit vicious, but polite. right there
first thing in the morning
a scar without introductions, familiar
with me and my habits, strong and deep.
..and so the scar had been with me
all day
quiet and noticeable, alarming passersby. in the park
a little girl wanted to touch it
and asked me if it would bite her hand off
her mother, they’re so young now they’re all so young,
pulled the girl along to other side
“..didn’t i tell you? didn’t i tell you to stay away from dirty old men..?”
but i think the mother said that because i had the impression
that there were moments when the scar smiled:
a smile that said, “I don’t give a shit anymore.”
something that Stanley would have said
if he had the chance to say something when they broke
into his house,
but he had been sleeping when they took the t.v.
and the doctors said it didn’t take much
pressure
from the pillow they must have put over his head
to knock a guy out at seventy-two.
we couldn’t believe that he didn’t outlive us
when he said he’d dance on our graves.
…and when i had thought about it
slowly, as slow as it gets these days,
i remember that Martha has been dead
too, but i can still hear her listening
for a mystery play on the radio.

“I can’t see what’s the point.” Tina said, flicking through the channels.
Peter snatched the remote out of her hand. “The point is you fucked him!”
“Listen,” Steve said, walking in from the kitchen, “I really had nothing to do and neither did she…”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I really can’t believe I’m still here.” Tina rolled her eyes. “I’d like to just once have no regrets about who I sleep with.”
Steve looked puzzled as he plopped onto the couch, next to her. “What other regrets?”
Peter threw the remote at Steve. “You thought you were the first?”
“I have that effect on boys” Tina sighed, getting up.
“She’s that good, Steve?” Peter asked, his face desperate and a little broken.
“Hold on,” Steve said to Peter, holding up a finger, calling out to Tina. “What’s with the boy comment?”
Tina poured herself a glass of wine.
“Three years and not even a kiss..” Peter muttered.
“Three years?” Steve was shock. “You sorry bastard.”
Peter snapped back, “”Three minutes, Steve? Who’s a sorry bastard?”
Steve closed his eyes. “You told him?”
Tina shrugged. “I was really upset about the whole thing Stevie.”
Peter put his face in his hands. “I can still imagine the scene, with your Bugs Bunny boxers around your ankles apologizing.” He looked up at Steve. “I must admit, stress over your dog’s neutering appointment is original.”
Tina chuckled and poured herself another glass.
Steve turned a deep red that neither Peter or Tina thought possible.
Tina tugged at her tank top, suddenly irritated. “When are we going to bury this conversation among other fruitless ventures ?”
“I’d like to know when am I going to get the chance to bury my head underneath your sheets.” Peter shook his head.
Steve regained his composure. “Wait a minute…Did Tina ever know about your feelings for her?”
Peter looked at Steve deadpan. “It’s one of the only reasons why we’re friends.”
“What??” Steve glared at Tina.
Tina glared back. “It’s none of your business.”
“But-”
“It really isn’t.” She cut him off and turned her back, disappearing back into the kitchen.
“It’s times like these my therapist warned me about…” Peter paced the living room, his face still in his hands.
“Oh please.” Tina stepped out of the kitchen and sat on the dining room table.
“Do you mind?” Steve said, regarding his table.
Tina looked down at either side of her. “It’s a bit hard but considering it’s wood, it’s to be expected.”
Steve paused, then looked at Peter, who was still pacing, and Steve didn’t care if he was crying or not. “You love her and she’s like this?”
Peter spun around, his arms waving. “You DON’T love her, you don’t even KNOW her and YOU SLEPT WITH HER??! Who are YOU to judge ANYONE??”
Steve scratched his head. “I really don’t know what to make of all this.”
Peter was pacing again, mumbling.
“It’s simple,” Tina said, crossing her legs. “I was horny and you were around and everything else from there on was a bit of a disappointment. Now,” Tina then pointed to Peter, “He’s upset because he’s been hard up for me for a little while now-”
Peter dropped his hand from his face. “A little while?”
Tina looked at him, “Look. If you think three years is a long time to wait for me then you know nothing about me mister and I suggest you give up all hope as of now.”
Steve had never seen a man shrivel up before but Peter proved that such things do happen. It wasn’t anything anyone could have pointed out on the surface, but Steve knew Peter, albeit briefly, and this was it: Peter looked broken by the way all the weight, all one hundred and ninety pounds, just dropped out of him.
Steve turned and for some reason, even if he really never liked Pete to begin with, always moody and always too loud, Steve became angry with Tina and to hell to how tightly she could wrap her legs around him. “You got some nerve.”
Tina then pointed to Steve and he could almost feel that jab on his chest. “You, minuteman. I have no problem with the fact that you weren’t a raging bull. I enjoyed everything up to that point and was kind of expecting it.”
Steve didn’t know whether to smile or not.
“What I wasn’t expecting,” Tina continued and then the tone of her voice lowered, softened, “..was for you to come up with some lame excuse about it.”
Tina lowered her head. “Not everyone is some sort of piston and the ones that are, are the ones that like to hurt you with it.”
This was a rather sudden turn, not what anyone expected. Peter had looked up. Steve fell very silent and felt very guilty and couldn’t understand why. Then again, there was very little that Steve did understand about someone he barely knew, but had slept with.
But Peter caught on, regrettably, recognizing the tone in Tina’s voice, and it was one that he had not heard often. Instead of leaving it up to her, which had always been, Peter assumed, a bit harder than other things, he gave Steve a reason. “Tina’s first time,” Peter stopped, looked towards Tina for affirmation, or a sign for him not to continue. There was none, which meant, knowing Tina, it was okay, he could talk about this. “She was about seventeen and a little drunk. It was a house party and no, we were all really smashed and there was this guy there, a senior who had quite a rep and well, Tina wanted to find out…”
Peter looked at Tina and Tina nodded her head, but she remained silent, looking far off, past the corner of the living room.
“I walked in on them. She was missing for an hour or so and I got worried. I didn’t really know her then, I was going out with this girl, Suzanne, but it was my house.” Peter paused, glanced at Tina, then looked straight at Steve. “He was raping her. He said he wasn’t, but she couldn’t have let him… I mean it looked like he was practically strangling her, pinning her arms, pinning her. I tried to stop it and he decked me.” Peter laughed halfheartedly, exhausted just by the retelling, “I introduced Tina to one of my closest friends and he raped her…”
Tina straightened her back and whispered, turning both Peter and Steve’s heads. “He tossed me a nickel on his way out.”
Peter looked at Tina and his eyes were wet.
Steve bowed his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “oh..shit…”
They stayed where they were, breathing in that quiet way that people do at funerals, or during moments of silence, the room quieter than it would have been if it had been empty. Then Tina slid off the table and walked to Peter, taking hold of his arm, then turned and stood in front of Steve, her other hand outstretched. “Nice place, but it’s a bit stuffy. Let’s go for some fresh air.”

She says to the doctor that it isn’t so bad that it isn’t so bad as she has heard other people have told her, that it isn’t as bad as he thinks it is, as bad as other people have told him, she should know, she knows when it’s bad and it isn’t this time she swears it on her grave, and the doctor tells her that he doesn’t want to be the one to tell her I told you so, putting flowers on her grave, she says that it isn’t like, that she would tell him if it was she could tell if it was that bad which it isn’t because if it was he’d be able to tell without asking her, and she’d know it if it was that bad, which it wasn’t and he’d know and they wouldn’t have to say anything about it, but it isn’t that bad so she could put her clothes back on, forget about it like he did when it happened, and the doctor says that it isn’t as easy as that and she says, yes it is, forgetting is the easiest thing to do in the world she says to the doctor and her pants are on and she’s out the door like she hadn’t said anything at all, which she swears she had nothing to say about it to begin with. Really, there’s nothing to tell.

The me that you know wrapped around your ribs and I could leave I couldn’t breathe I could shed my skin like those snakes that we were both so afraid of and stare at and wonder how do you get one of those where do you get one and it was in the house always outside of the aquarium always outside of its cage and having found its skin on the corner of the bed one day between your toenails we knew right away that you was out of itself and we were out of our minds. Just a little snake you said. It won’t give up. It wants me dead.
A revelation came to me in the moments when I first woke up. I guess I had been thinking in my dreams of umberto eco although I’ve never had the attention nor the intention to read him but standing over the sink I had been thinking about something he had told me or something that someone who wasn’t him wrote about him and I was all very clear and clear for him I felt something come through in settle and make itself invisible swallowable and learnt. Something about language. Something about language that made it understandable something that set my mind at ease with what I’m doing, with writing and being so clear headed safe and relieved I came and sat here to jot it down before it left me before it became so well learned that it dropped out of articulation. But like everything else it and everything that it brought gone.
All I think about is filling up the page, how to get there. What to write what needs to be said anything to get to the end of it. I don’t want to stick around it’s too hard to stay here to force myself to stay here and pay attention to the moments beside me around me plaguing me at all angles. It isn’t nice here and it isn’t easy. You’d think it would be because breathing is such a simple act of faith. In deep and out there you go. Simple as one plus one but then you realize that one isn’t a number at all, that there’s no such thing as one thing being only itself or time stopping for one thing to be itself and the world shatters into raving maggots crawling shedding fish scales and everything is wet and thick and soft to the touch and my god breathing the easiest thing to do in the world becomes impossible.

an agony to breathe
deliberately
that next breath
but never being enough
to welcome another.
from the unlikeliness
of relieving the pressure
from behind the eyes,
to be scream
(wiring of metal slivers)
sweaty hands
over the neck,
to push my tears
roughly beneath
the skull,
the cranium,
the lacking.
my lip dry and never
twisted round enough
to lessen this tongue.
wanting to hear
teeth cracking the one eye
that could
never find itself
abrasive enough
to tear itself
through the lashes
thrown upon scars
(like bent skewers)
to pierce,
the tension
to make itself
that one “I”.
never forget
looking
for attachment to
the confined self
to say, grinding against skin
within myself,
but quite uncomfortable
to say
“within this skin”
however,
to skin these eyes
this hand is
being swallowed.

The statement of purpose, or rather, in the back of my mind, it comes out as, the purpose of statement: the purpose of laying down the divisions that have brought you here, that you’re about to transgress and embark upon. To make clear a point: this is the point from where I am, hailing outward to all beacons, “This is me speaking, is there anybody out there?” How does one answer that question at this age, meaning my own, or even, “in this day and age?” The future is unpredictable, not just ups and downs and roundabouts: it contains tragedies and unexpected lemon rind squirts in the eye and the smiles of children; it unfolds and untwines, entangles and ensnares, moves along at its own pace. To sum up: always with each footfall, our hand in front of us feeling for a handrail, sometimes there, other times not, we ask, “What’s the point of this? What has led me here? Where’s the meaning of it all? What has been determined by memory or desire or even fate? What now? What further?”
Begin then from the little I know, the little I remember. A mother, a father, in a country where neither spoke the language, the language with which I am plagued, that I find myself in, surrounded and immersed, traveling further along than either one could have imagined having started from such meager beginnings. After elementary school, the mother was sent to the big city, away from the hills, to earn her keep. The father strolled by the zaharoplastion (pastry shop), saw the fifteen-year-old girl through the window and walked in. Four months later, they were married. He was twenty-nine at the time. His family bought them a house in New York. He had a job, she had a child. He had gambling debts and a mouth that stunk with explicatives, along with top shelf liquors. She had no water or electricity, just debt collectors at her door and bruises. He had a string of bad luck (or so he had told me when I would meet up with him two decades later), she had enough. He was told to leave after one night in particular, and I remember the particulars the most: the towel wrapped around her head and him pulling the phone out of the wall in his black socks and jockey briefs, I viewed it from the floor where he had thrown me; she huddled in a corner. He left. My childhood then consisted of hours playing in the garden behind the house, in what I later realized were weeds, immersed in silence. I learned to make my own toys that we couldn’t afford out of aluminum foil, twisting the silvery material into Godzillas and fighter planes.
Early schooling showed promise; I won storytelling contests in elementary school. There the writing started. It led to special placement in a junior high school where I was ostracized for being different, ethnic and silent. I took a specialized test to enter one of the three best high schools in New York City. Accepted to all three, I choose Bronx High School of Science. Sophomore year, November, a friend committed suicide by jumping off the side of the train, three feet in front of me. Winter of senior year, another friend, after having undergone three years of surgery to remove tumors from around his head, flew out the side window because he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt, twenty feet from the car that his parents had bought him after he had survived the final surgery that summer. That was January 9, 1990. I dropped out of high school on the seventeenth. I had my General Equivalency Diploma and was accepted into John Jay College of Criminal Justice by April. Making Forensic Psychology my major, I had hoped to find some sort of explanation for what the people in my life (my father, my friend, even my God) had done. I still hadn’t a focus, a purpose. My purpose, at the time, which I was quite committed to, was throwing this laughable life away. I still wrote, endlessly at times, but “what of it?” One professor, a creative writing course I took on the fly, looked at my work, turned me around, forced my eyes onto my own words, and asked the right questions. For two years, I have been finally listening, reading, being reintroduced to words, both in and out of required texts.
This is where I am now. This is what I want to do (there is still, amongst the public, the doubting belief that writing is indeed an activity, a doing, a motion across two physical planes). To be honest, I want to be the next Sophocles, the next Hemingway, the next Roland Barthes, or, even more so, the next Kenzaburo OÄ“. I’d like to teach, to pay the debt I owe to my mentor, to swing around others who have lost belief. I’d like to guide them because I have been there, in speechlessness (nothing is more despairing than that, even in wondrous moments: to be unable to place oneself in syntax, to be without meaning). To be a witness not only to my own life, as a writer, but also to the insight dawning on students’ faces, a new kernel of understanding in their eyes as they read Auster or Austen, Salinger or Perec. In the end however, it all comes down to words doesn’t it?
Each time I write, I have with me two layers of understanding: one is that, by writing, I can leap across into the imagination, into the unknown, into the something never before encountered; the other is a working knowledge of motivation and memory, of thought and language processes. I sometimes work twenty hours straight for a word, a phrase composed and transposing, having reached across and brought a piece of the world back to me, frozen and timeless. That is the purpose of statement: to reach across and bring back. This is my statement of purpose: I have something to say of our collective condition, or perhaps, something about my own humanity.

let’s say it was something blue
let’s say it was something blue and saying it now does
let’s say simply blue and something to it like putting a spin on a bottle
in a circle of children a bottle spinning
spinning the bottle beer brown in a corner where saying blue meant bringing something
into saying
into something with something other than blue coming out of the mouth in two parts
one part being clatter or clutter
part clutter clatter being children in one green corner of the world
chatter clatter of the one green corner of the world spinning around children
spinning blowing round round clutter chatter of children spinning one beer brown bottle
battle for attention
let’s say attention
let’s say something about being at attention
at a tension
of strings
blue strings cording through shipyard bundles against the seashore sand shore against the reefs
or bottles bundles of bottles
bottled bundles of joy clattering over the seaside sand shore floor in all colors in one corner
or one color of all colors blue
again blue again
let’s say it with some grace
let’s say blue again and something other than the saying it again
like the measurement between teeth or tooth or tooth and nail
nailing it
a plate to a yellow wall
yellow walls big and small all around and inside green corners of green fields of corn
corning this close to meaning a flat matte finish against the left breast
or the right breast
either without shame save for the saying and appropriate saving of such like saving orange curls
of rinds
against shipwrecked bottle brown beers spinning in the corners of children carrying chattering on
in yellow four walled rooms
saying something