So-and-so with your arms at your side - tiny bits of mercury in your mouth. true crime is never as
disturbing as the podcast claims. so, someone doesn't get out alive; big deal. I have an app on my
iPhone that alerts me when there's gunfire – West 4th and whatever - my stomach is empty so tell
me more stories – I’ll catch you in lies like a flying fish who calls it quits halfway across the bay.
You say you paced the George Washington Bridge contemplating suicide - oh bother – & a roll
of the eyes - I wanted to read the obituaries and finally say I know that guy! - but you claim the
cops stopped you. When I hit the water men circled me, my body became heavy, my body
became weak - I held my breath and kicked my way to the shore - ran towards my towel where
sunbathing women took drags off Parliaments and blew out the word whore - it held heavy in the
air like a bloated nimbus cloud. Groups of girls gathered in the locker room and set sanitary
napkins on fire – playing light as a feather, stiff as a board - knees against chests, stretching out
oversized t-shirts – three girls on either side - two fingers beneath the body, two fingers falter to
lift what is dead.
Author Statement: Soda, but when I lived in the Midwest everyone said "pop." We would drink through straws or bite both ends of a Red Vine and slurp loudly in movies theaters. I like Twizzlers more than Red Vines, but I have never told anyone. I prefer reruns to new shows; my anxiety prevents me from enduring surprise endings. I want to be a potted plant on an animated sitcom. I could coax a serial killer into taking his own life. Collage helps my writing when I am stuck. I am always a little stuck; just trying to tell someone - it's all so weird isn't it? silence is the perfect answer.