Measured Extravagance

11 April 2002 - 10:37 p.m.

Happiness is weather warm enough for me to sally forth into the night wearing nothing more than a short black dress, thin black flats, and a long-sleeved velveteen shirt. Happiness is sitting at a mostly empty bar, listening to the BYM and a friend chat about goth boots, freaky hair and mental disorders while the bartender slices a bin full of lemons right across from me.

"a city, like memory, is not a place of certainty"

    inspired by grace
    (and thus
    for her - but not to her - she already knows about seeing)

i don't want to want to blame anyone for the scars on my heels
and someday i'll have earned the strength to wear water as my armor.
to carry my mournings as lightly as crumbled leaves.

i harbor so many stones within the pools of my lungs,
the breadcrumbs of wandering gorgons.
once, i was a peach. now i am but the glaze on a teacup.

who do you cherish and what would you have them drink?
do these potions belong in cartons or cauldrons?
which stains will you choose to preserve in your knowing

that some of these stories cannot be etched away
no matter which angle or curve you select
with your blades and burnishing steels

but see! there are cloths. there are colors. there are cities.
they are all on my breath, alive on my tongue,
and sliding through my fingers like constellations made fluent.

    - pld

One year ago: " only point of reference is a community theater production in which Pilate was portrayed by a tall, cool alto in a lavender bustier..."

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