(21) Story Building

(21) Story Building
by chris walker
It’s hard to breathe, sometimes. Like I was hit in the solar plexus. Or like my lungs are full of foam.
you speak pretty and hard.
write a book about me and dedicate it to yourself
There’s something about your pictures.
that goes right into my eyes
and through my brain
then right down my throat
and it sits in the center of my body
electric
I guess I owe it to you
That’s something to understand, in and of itself. Emptiness. Things that are too quiet, or not loud in the right way.
rubbed it clear, washed it
stained
painted over
it’s pulling itself together, slowly.
breathe deep and keep your eyes open
stories of life
i have one where there are fish swimming out of my side.
the aquarium-
bright orange fish , right out of my stomach
There’s nowhere to run, here. Every direction just takes you somewhere you don’t want to be.
we’re hopeless, you know?
or I’m hopeless
or it’s hopeless.
the only thing she could think of, other than fire
I wonder what it would be like to be outside somewhere, unbelievably cold. To be standing there with no protection. Then to just set yourself on fire. Would you register any difference? Momentary relief? Or would it just be pain, overwhelming and immediate?
It burnt, and was so painfully sharp. Have you ever had cactus needles in your clothes? slivers? like fiberglass? That’s what it felt like and I couldn’t stop laughing.
that bundle of nerves.
i picked it up, i set it down.
Like it would hurt your mouth to say it.
I try to make that a goal in life, not letting things kill me.
it takes so long to stand
up and down are only different in places with gravity, but it’s hard to talk in a vacuum