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so i swing and the chains are rusty and gets orange porey mushrooms on the webbing between my milky dimble frosty fingers that get melty and content in the weird sunshiney and hair turns rusted and gleaming in this light in front of my eyelashes and everything is in a big motion. i wonder what this big motion defines. white diney fine napkins float over the sky and there are tired white grain silos and other lives over the brown and yellow trees over the rusting railroad spikes. i want over there. i say stolen words; "you are so fine and nice, i want you alive." i want to pinch the skin on my arms because i can feel it. so at the top, i tell myself i will let go of the rusted swing chains and shove aside the sky...riiight...NOW. but i do not and swing backwards once again, and bowl over small minty pumpkernickel children wrapped in apple red sweater vests playing freeze-tag in the playground sand behind me. they scream. i run away feeling so triumphant. and so horrible. and mean. and grown up. i think i will pinch off my arms someday. (like douglas) i will turn, in my fever, and sigh.
by The JavaScript Source
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