Delete what was used

what we used,         then and ever.

over and over.

over and over.

What I ate,

what I sang with after flipping my hair

, my hand in the cookie jar

any jar, for that matter.

my plastic, sticky, cheesy fingers, poking around

looking for mysteries to solve, running out of breath;

unsure of which faded button controls the volume anymore.

I can always add back in,,, turn it back up/////

All that noise is what you get sitting in the front row,

trying to catch those doors, and the curtains before they close at intermission.

Its what we get when we can really see our breath, see our arms and hands catching those doors,

and we haven’t even talked about any of it,

and appear on talk shows and wait in the same lines together , someday.

What we deserve, wherever the cursor ends up ; where are arms and hands end up.

but maybe, not exclusively, those eventualities.

Dealing mostly in anonymity / and stolen art / and stolen evenings.

Greeted by these conditions ,          all of it stolen// allocated // deliberate.

( we had it right allocated the first time)

I meant what I said.

and after taking the tail clean off.

I meant what I said.

All those dreams of hallways and staircases in buildings from when you were about 4?

All those red bricks you remember are gone, decapitated, filed away.

All those synthesizers that accompanied those same dreams?

they are probably gone too. 

Reduced to nothing but accomplices now, feedback and treble clefs,

married away , arms and hands // in that order

in confidence // along to Jeddah.

” I like how I ended it_” –

” I like how I ended it_” –