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One for the Cutters
1:22 p.m. 2010-01-25


Somewhere back east there are shadows dancing in the shade of ancient trees, bending themselves into forgetfulness and letting sunshine bloom between twigs and tyranny, letting the memories guide sinewy legs and lithe little arms. In the quiet fifteen between dreaming and getting up there are bright facets of memory relived endlessly behind shrouded eyes; the memories of all the loss and love and cliched bits of living we treasure none the less. The stuff we don’t talk about: finding pale legs in the darkness, the heavy moistness of breath on our necks and chests, the strange smells and sounds of love. We carry devastation and revelry in the crooked precious workings of our scarred chests and our deluded chemical brains and we are the seeds of every feeling that ravaged every ounce of every moment spent waking walking and loving. We are hope and pain and the traces of ecstasy we sometimes find bedraggled and forgotten on the sidewalk when we’re walking home from our lovers’ houses. Somewhere back east my ghost is sitting in phantasm trance outside your house, dripping sweaty anticipation and dreaming great gory dreams of the west coast. And somewhere off Puget sound my lonely angel is dreaming electric visions of summer and Midwest rainstorms to project some color over gray water. I have been a little bit of everywhere, and I carry a million states of grace and despair safe and warm in my heart and I call them meaningless memory, and I say my soul resides squarely behind my collar-bone but my soul is careening endless between North Carolina and Portland, tiptoeing across Texas and screaming endless litanies across alabama and the lush quagmire of Louisiana. I am everywhere, and I am everything I have done and there’s a part of me in every lost lover and little silouhette. I have no pictures, no post cards and there are only a few slight scars littering my expansive skin, but I have my memories nestled somewhere in my skull and they play themselves endlessly, projected across windshields and windows and my pink eyelids.

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words @ jake, layout @ kelly