lyric in which you begin to confuse who you are for who strangers appear to be
Jamison Crabtree

The brain snap and there slip they memory
of touch. Ouch.

It crack to contusion. Or, detailed,

clawfoot bathtub and you (me, you)
awaking in it. Some shallow lamplight arc

fore and aft across they strange pink tile.

Night yes, but night a poor technique for measuring yr life.

Keep they charade up. No we
hasn't changed even slightly,

not in our, yr, or my sleep (and so on,

in that order). You knows yr shirt
by what fit us. You knows yr name by what you carries.

Not much else worth dwelling abouts. We all labyrinth

with they bastard child, they minotaur
roaming throughouts the heart.

A thread caught in yr gums, dangle outs
yr mouth: yr tongue. Ha! It best to follow it back to us.

But I ain't no one save the person who once wrote

I created a memory from your memories and wrote of them as if they were real.

and the person who read it. And for all this,

we real (for this, we) sorry.

1996 © 2011