LET'S TALK ABOUT SLEEPING ON THE FLOOR.
On a grassy knoll.
In La Jolla.
It probably wasn't a knoll, but that sounds good, doesn't it?
You must read it very rhythmically, outloud.
For that is how it was composed.

BUT FIRST, LOOK AT MY CAT.



crash into the grass
skin your skin on the skin
of mother earth
crash into the grass, crash on the grass
let the women with their
blue hair
wheelchairs
wooly blankets
brittle fingers
let them stare
let them stare at us sleep, sleep,
let them sleep
then them stare at
the grass, at the sleepers,
at the sleeping people and papers
while we slumber
awakened by the
wild whomping wumpus
of a wheezing
weed whacker
I shift down against my comfortable companion,
comforted by this warm human
electric blanket
my circuits are peaceful

starry-eyed limpets desperately clinging to the last vessel of their own self worth
departing marginally
deadly machinations of twisted vines that creep down one's throat and throttle the vocal chords
until the eyes start to talk
speaking water instead of words

speaking volumes

these human leeches
they'd rather wrap themselves in the drapes,
ugly curtains
a shade of melancholy mustard
they'd rather hide in the curtains than touch the truth

she's really only missing a few knobs and handles
makes it difficult to hang on to her, she's so slippery and those talking eyes, lubricious.

the drapes smell like estate sale and
bodies or vegetables that have been in the sun too long
sprouting mummified limbs, and their arms - sticks with transparent wings.

they are magnetically pulled under the current
and she is lacking the reason to climb out and unfold their eyelids

dearest,
shambala.
i have removed all the light bulbs.
illuminated is the place i hate to visit, where the green corduroy carpet veils the past
life: reduced, shoved delicately into a box.
a stolen box, from the closet of a kinsmen.

there are two pictures:

one. we are in a pool, our teeth sinking into the same brownie.
someone took a picture. you were red, i was white. i needn't note the color of the brownie.
our bodies looked bulbous and ethereal under the water. later, someone would steal the picture and give it to another as a gift.
we would then be black and white and impervious to pain.

two. we are at a table. a gaudy, wrought-iron table.
i probably bought the brownie because it was soft and indubitably, i would touch anything that was soft. although i intended to prey upon this decadent creation, our attention was ensnared by the photograph being taken. or at least, yours was.
your ingrained film-conciousness told you to look happy, and you failed to bite down.
you always smile when you shouldn’t. it’s as if you’re only capable of joy, and who am i curse it?
i, however, finish my thought and bite down. hard. that photograph crouches in a landmine of remembrance. i refuse to tread carefully, which explains my missing limbs.

do you remember those times?
for i remember how to bake.

what if i found you in my bed?

i remain,
devotedly yours,
chelsea sexton