Roads ridden with red

Roads ridden with red—sun go down sun—to touch the dance along the tremor. Last night I stayed up alright all night. I watched the street lights countdown as the cars came buckling around the corner, and spilt like a new drink of red, a boy gets knocked down by every girl who slightly unloosens a smile, unwavering, quivering, shivering in the black velvet sheets held up in the back of a quite quant portrait. When I was young I expanded my horizons with a smile, and laid up my inhibitions to the whims of a photographer who liked to get naked when he was afraid. I liked it better when I was young. My living room light likes to flicker and die. I like to sit and eulogize. He likes my euphemisms.

When I clap my hands and the light shatters like a stained glass window, and mother Mary slices her wrists as a shade of scarlet is pulled from underneath her dress, and the world whirls down the stony steps high fiving all the primary colors as it goes wish wish wish; when we kiss, the hair on my skin stands up; when we touch, I wait until my breathe catches up; when we spend ourselves for a moment cut from the same cloth that our mother’s prayed over us while we shut the world up into the higher heavens, I, not that I feel now but that I have felt and will still feel, tremble as it slides near like the ocean, pulling bits and pieces as it withdraws and advances, withdraws and advances . The moon looked pretty anyways.

When we pull these white sheets up to our chins—white—when we will ourselves over to the bubbling air popping and howling out of the dry cracked earth. And pull in our knees till we turn blue in the face like a, like a, like a red minted portrait cut for you and me. It kills. Hushed up like that, so dip and bend and scoop it up to your mouth and let the—white—rain slide down your eyes wide open. Terror because it feels too deep. Sensitive like clothes on a laundry line. Hung up in noon and taken down in the evening. We see when we fall down on our backs. And let the clouds sheet over our bodies and lull us to sleep with a how and a wait and a tremor that shivers the spine and placates our hopes held onto till we feel the burst, like a smiling watermelon carrooning towards the pavement. Ooh. We’ll know it when we see it.