i can type without looking, i can look without leaping. muscle memories mean the nerves respond without thinking. your heart is a muscle the size of your fist says the postcard i never mailed. i'm holding it, i hold on and i don't let go. building a nest (magpie style) out of printed words and things that shine, so i can have something i can tell is mine.
six moths ago i swore if my life were a broadway play it would be lay miz. i claimed if my life were a beastie boys song it would be sabotage. that was the winter of my discontent. i was playing the percussion instruments called the doldrums. but seriously folks.
recently i went to bed drunk and high on the potent elixir of text messages. floating on love transmitted electronically 160 characters at a time. i dreamed i was a lego character, my lower east side apartment a set you could buy and configure as you pleased. everything is colorful, everything snaps together. these days my life is more like the title of a number from hair; let the sunshine in, at best. white boys, at worst*. not bad either way. still not oklahoma (o, what a beautiful morning), but a girl can dream. it's still early in the week.
*that is what we call a joke, btw.
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