Unpack your bags, baby. We’re traveling light.
I’ve got seven dollars, two sets of teeth and
a stranger’s heart. I know you always carry
a spare.

Beware the red marks on papers. Fold your gum
inside origami airplanes and write your name
on the tail. Lights mean we’re too close
to the city.

You think u-turns are legal here, but not with
your hand like that on my knee. Three points
for every exit we pass without having to pee.

is the nemesis of all we love. It’s heat we’re after,
not light. Moths confused by the bang of stars.
Every writer has a lover with a gun. Baby,
you know you’re the one.



Image taken with iPhone.
Words written in a big old booth.
Time Taken 4 minutes-ish.
Brain on traveling. And on the fact that I’m sniffly. Arg.

This entry was published on May 24, 2012 at 10:57 am and is filed under May, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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