case study
Chopin moved her to tears last night, an Impromptu bout of weeping,
inappropriate; to say the least she reveled in it. Poetry left her banging
notebooks' innocent blue-lined blankness to her head, her head to the bed, in a
frenzy of why-won't-it-all-come-out. Religion left her debating over coffee, a smug
sophist, an empty tin goddess.
Collects junk: chipped bottles ragged books curbside furniture, wears
clothes of dead men, inherited or purchased, haunts second-hand stores, attics,
seeking familiarity in sepia photographs.
Reads all grafitti in the scarred bench before sitting under one street
light, smoking thin slivers of fire-tipped addiction, wielding ball-point with deadly
sarcastic intent, shooing moths from her face while describing each mothwing
breath as inspiration.
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