The hills across the valley of the Ebro
were long and white. On this side
there was no shade and no trees and the
station was between two lines of rails
in the sun. Close against the side of the
station there was the warm shadow of
the building and a curtain, made of strings
of bamboo beads, hung across the open door
into the bar, to keep out flies. The American
and the girl with him sat at a table in the
shade, outside the building. It was very hot
and the express from Barcelona would come
in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction
for two minutes and went to Madrid.
'What should we drink?' the girl asked.
She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.
i am natasha. i am a bomb.
bold, bare, frozen
Email.
NatashaAdorlee@Gmail.com
because i'd rather fill this space with nonsense.
natashaadorlee.com,
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Self_(psychology),
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Family,
Tuesday, September 15, 2009, 5:27 PM
Your name is horribly misspelled
In my phone
And while I consider the possibility
Of fixing it
I imagine that our conversation will surely be dead
Before I’ll have ever learned or read
All the letters that make up your name correctly
or tasted how they will flick off my tounge.
Besides, it sounds better spelled this way-
Anyway. And sounding good don't come easy,
but by accident.
And I look unto you, puffy cream cone head boy
With jittery thoughts and your city slicking cowboy charm
And wonder why you are such an oxymoron.
Why am I such a foolish fool
For them puffy cream cone headed boys
Or the shaggy ones that flick their hair
In the misting morning air-
And make me ill behind these weighted ploys.
So solo, on my majestic purple painted steed
I’ll frolic-
Into valleys, plains, castles and kingdoms
That I very well have researched and know-
And play to kings, princes, and their loyal dogs
My puppet show. My modern, new wave, rock, feminine,
Gorilla-esque, surf infused, folk indie pop, puppet show.
Oh, how it feels to be liked.
I got the cool wave of something
That feels like happiness but it's syndicated,
And fabricated,
Dropping into my bloodstream, running me dry, dry-
But lord, I feel mighty high sitting here.
Watching the stars melt on the sidewalk
My hands fading inside me-
I am penniless and poor with only my thoughts
Produced in 2 minutes and 30 seconds
Of commercial musical joy,
That with each second become the hallmark,
Of my great sadness. My great hope.