October 2, 2014

Motel 6


The curvature of life turns inward.
I wake up back to where I started: Georgia, two-week-old whiskey, unemployed.

In the Motel 6, we take the batteries out of the smoke detectors.
We build a fort in bed.

He pushes fingers still wet with camera chemicals inside of me and asks:
Is your body a political statement?

The curvature of life turns inward.
I wake up back to where I started: Highway 75, yellow American Spirits, aimless.

At the Roswell waterfall, we take the stones out of the river bed.
We build a dam on the shore.

She drags her feet through a pool of blood on the bridge and asks:
Is your heart still beating blue?