Monday, 31 August 2015

unauthorized autobiography

I am made up. I am made up of classic horror flix and criticism, behind the loving family. I am made of denim jeans and wrinkled dollar bills I try and iron with my fingers at the laundromat. I am made of blue-gray-green eyes and circles and ovals and triangles. I am made up of denial of certain harsh realities. When I embrace them, they are still wrapped in fantasy. My escape hatch is up through my head, where I sprout rare gardens reaching for the sun. I may be just starting when you are nearly done. My roots give up water to the moon and monsoon. I am a saline solution in a world full of problems. I have been known to border apathy to the east and sympathy to the west. My anxiety borders psychosis when I am not being true to myself. I am made of books and books are made of pages and pages are made of words and words are made of letters I transcribe in my heart out of blood. I can get by on French and butcher Spanish. The blood circulates all the way to my fingertips and comes out in English. I speak dead languages to bring us back to life. I would tell you more but I haven't been given permission.   xxx   KatYa