meesha on the phone

there's just too much to eat it all. sometimes i wish we could talk like people. on a porch, with rockers. and sun . and blankets over my knees. sometimes i don't ever want to get there. i bet i fight every step of the way. this wearies me in advance. misha reads a hardboard book after therapy. the pages seems more solid. she's learning the names of colors. orange is how he touched her. blue is her inner thigh. grey is her eyelid closed by a finger. white is when she sleeps.

outside she can hear water becoming itself again. she looks up, into a face she remembers from the musical they made her leave. the eyes are not blue, not green, not the color of jesus on sundays. they're clear. irises with no soul. she wants to crawl into the smile. she thinks there are no teeth. she doesn't see teeth. they've all been hidden in space and dissonant.she grabs her sleeping mat , folds into a neat sqaure. her pink hello kitty blanket trails from her hand as she steps into the big round o. it closes behind her like a waterfall.

he wanted to sample the simple things} riots in teheran, cornflowers in dungeons, karate on dancing with the stars. so he hid on the periphery, disguised as a futon. whenever a fat dog would enter, he'd get the smell of pancreas in his slopes and begin to shiver. it didn't matter to the dogs, they always clambered up, slobbery flea motels with bad attitudes. the thing he disliked most was the obscured irony . it was no joke when they farted. it left him weak in the supports, and he'd bend in the middle like the night he finally got to have her at the window, with the blinds open, bad girl mischa who had to write into another life.