liz robbinsnerve_bios_5.html


Weeks, the frigid morning breakfast.

Weeks, the whispered you must do list.

Weeks, the kibbles in the dog dish.

Weeks, the pushed down nearly gone wish.

Weeks, the Sunday evening laundry.

Weeks, the gritty spoons of coffee.

Weeks, the decomposing memos.

Weeks, the heart's unleaping at no.

Weeks. Of weeks, and, oh.        O,

Dream. sdfsdfsdfsdf Dream

fast bloomed skin glazed bourbon sugar caked

syringe plump drop at the top pulled down

red buds extending strings thumbed humming

Just this streaming toward.

Just this one last tearing



You are these palm treed islanded water sunned days free.

mmmm And in the same way

you eat the salt casseroles brought to the wake

you must accept the days' simple offerings.

No matter the boat unmoored.

No matter how hard your grip on metal arms.

No matter the float you've forgotten:

mmmm the dead man, out of practice.

No matter how limp, the endless sea.

Perhaps if you strike land.

Perhaps if you pretend to be a maker, try a castle of sand.

Perhaps if you mold the moat's path to the sea,

mmmm not follow the mind's usual slick slide. And the

pina colada, helplessly trying to help. And the

sunscreen, the little you're protecting. And the

roasted meat on a stick, how much it is costing. And the

haunted bible in the nightstand.

Tonight, on cable:

a film with a drunk star, Dead Ringer.

a film with an adulterous starlet, The Milkman Cometh.

a film with your boss, Jane Air.

a film with you, The Round and the Furry.

What's the last thing you said that was silly?

What's your age divided among your # of dependents?

What's your requirement of daily sun, and how do you get it?

What's your prescription?

Identify the Muzaked song on the elevator.

Identify any appetizers that aren't fried.

Identify your kid's favorite stuffed animal.

Identify in the night sky what may be a flying saucer

mmmm or your dead father.

Your back, scorned. The TV's too-bright nation.

But perfectly dead sleep. Too loud dreams.