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/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the ��������������������������������������������spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed������������������������������������������mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and

2003-03-23, 3:42 a.m.

black trenchcoat, $9.95

��������� �����so tonight. (yes, i entered previous, but it's not interesting.)

still konstantine spinning on the winamp. reading josie's entries, reading corey's entries. ping pong back and forth between the two. like they live in two separate apartment buildings and there is rain between the two of them. josie's window is sort of filmed over and sad, half-cracked in places, and she's running her hand over it and calling it beautiful and corey's watering a cactus on his window. dar williams plays in his room. josie's room smells like tea and jamaican beer.

(afraid to find out that you're alone, oh - and i'm sleeping in your living room - )

they're both humming the same song and they don't know it. only josie is crying, but you can't call it crying. and this isn't even real. it's that wet-silence you can't call tears, or sobs, or weeps, or cries. it doesn't eke, it doesn't drip, or fall, or slide, or even moisten.

(and then you bring me home - )

that's enough. i feel for them. tragic consequences, slip-sliding away and all that. plain white to cobalt grey. (but dammit, you're so young - and i don't think i care. and if i hurt you, then i'm sorry - )

who's afraid of how the darkness slides underneath the closet door? "which is more ridiculous, a child afraid of the dark or a man afraid of the light?" - maurice pointhill. i think it was good old mr. pointhill. i don't know him, but his last name sure is kind of ridiculous.

(that these nights that we were drinking, but they never got us anywhere, no - )

kaylen.

(and then you bring me home - )

can you imagine the fourth of july this year? i can't. i'll be twenty in four days. i feel filled with independence, with the octane necessary ... (all the hell i put you through - )

in repose. a sketch of mark & anna. light. josie's light. a mutter of rain like an old man brushing against the window with the hem of his ripped trenchcoat.

(this is to a girl who got into my head with all the pretty things she did - )

a few days ago i bought a long black trenchcoat at salvation army.

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�SEH