an old man who needed help with the garbage

a piece of

crap in my left eyeball a piece of

broom that a Spanish man from work

breathed in to my face,

i sat in a

tall room, shrank at his weakness

i

twitched somewhere on the ceiling.

it was a sponge on my back that

glowed orange, drooled clear, the

top of the room kept me up there

high-loose in its spatter,

i can see other

shoulder blades and ankles,

caked dust and other filth,

and and and up here i melt,

the man too delicate to dispose,

i melt and we give, and we soften.

among a metal

echo i jump at the

veins hollering

hot under the

pink backs of my

left and right.

a lazy

mouth, that metal

echo

forms an "o"-

lip, something this

woman does and

leans against something

dry, this lady sure can

sing because my

blood is beating my

hands into fists.

a drink i take to

one and its pulp is sturdy

i float, my feet contort my 

clothes burn my hair

falls and i drown.

i left my seven-month-old boy at home with the cat today. i removed my bra and top before i left. my son started crying at the sight of my breasts--i hadn't fed him in hours prior to my leaving. my nipples swelled and lightly spattered sequence-sized drops. my body wanted to feed him.

i left and didn't lock the door. i left the oven on, the iron on, the water running, the pot on, the curler plugged in. i left the windows open.

several hungry and hateful eyes landed on my skin while i was on the subway. when i got off, a group of junior high schoolers pushed their faces against the glass, fingers as wolves in their pockets.

i received several more disbelieving stares, bitter kisses to teeth, blushing men, women and children. a dog that a man was walking wanted only to sniff my ankle.

i walked into a grocery store, the air inside was cooler than it was outside. my shoulders hunched, my nipples hardened. my chest was wet; i hadn't stopped lactating since i'd left. my boy must still have been crying.

my boy must still be crying.

i shaved my face earlier this evening, and i didn't use shaving cream while shaving my mustache area.

i'm crying because of recent information, because of who i'm talking to, because of what i've seen and because of what i'm listening to.

i wiped the space between my nose and my lips with a tissue that was so white it burned my eyes. i was bleeding above my lip, the tissue baked my blood to brown--what used to be something of mine is croaked and bent brown on a tanning bed tissue.

my nose is running and the skin beneath anything falling from my nose burns.

why don't you check the facts and then blow my brains out cut my head off.

this place will be home to a lot of swears, scabs and ash.

i hang around the

place where summer

stings a patch

behind or inside my

knees and i want to

tear that

fucking thing

out.