jesus christ, she was one hundred and ten years old.
we climbed the chicken wire.
we smoked cigarettes in st. boniface.
graveyard.
cemetery.
we are on a fast track to hell but you are a secular humanist,
(and i'm sure that's great, but i don't know what it means,)
and i am, well, secular - a heathen. that's nice.
but i found a personal bible. on the sidewalk.
if i keep it in my pocket,
i'm sure it cancels out brushing the snow
off of headstones with my dirty shoes.
i'll take you with me when i get to the heaven i don't believe in.
i'll take you with me when my corpse rots,
when my good organs are plucked out, and my ashes are scattered.
lovers names should have been carved into the tree in the cemetery.
my mind offered to carve our names, but my mouth and hands
didn't have the guts to follow through.
and we're just friends, because that's what we need.
the slashed, deflated and cold,
sidewalk-provided,
i love you
balloon defined the night.
that and the bikini kill song "white boy."
don't laugh don't cry just die.
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