what would it be like to have my face plastered to the side of a bus? an eternity of happiness, giggles, no worries. nothing but a laughing face frozen in an expedient motion, an empty eye.  free of order, shaped clay being formed from the dirt on my knees.  spraying water on a snowman, spraying dreams on memories of dark nights in those mid-life crisis consisting fluently of girls in flowered summer dresses, swaying in summer wind, blond hair flowing with a toss, a turn, brushing itself free of dank hatred, purity.  be clean! sweeping marks, broken mops and broken backs made of candlesticks propped gently against the wall of blossoming pear trees, decorative, meant for nothing but to watch, see, look.  a testimony of wealth.  neverending dire need for cleanliness, for fresh nights, fresh air, water, clothing.  tin metal roof marked with yellow eyes. a testimony of my stones, glisten brighter, sparkle harder. look, look, look at me. try a new way, a broken way, a tired marsupial transitive made for nothing but conditioning contractions of the mind. an empty happiness made of shots in my deceptively clean glass, my smoking cigarettes.  a true look at nothing new, nothing momentary, things change so slowly they don't. a trying way to see you, but a way in the trying end, "the straw that broke the camels back".  don't try to look at me, don't try to understand why he gets her and she gets me, shirts with cleavage meant for girls who fit, who fit in, with their C cup breasts, broken backs, misunderstanding of a different time; a flattened marketer yearning only to be the it girl, the sought and the sought after. try harder they say, try longer. an effort for you would only be an ending for me - lost memoirs of a different time, "would you be the transnational? transamericanal?" no, my lost carnations only empty themselves of carnage at the right time, the last time, the only time left before your engaging pattern of repitition draws its last breath. you wonder where i came from, with my missing words made of you, your soul, my father's blood, sweat, tears. and we all know that those girls that can share their losses, forget their pain, they're the ones to be envied.  at least they can voice their regrets. i dream of a different time, a more satisfactory making of purses, blouses, slacks. falling, my earth becomes a tractor, ever morphing out of nature, into long-lost formations, built to house my possessions, my skin-deep larsony. you don't understand that i was once what you are now. sure it was fun, but wait another month and see how you feel, convulsing on your stomach, emptied of dinners made from last year's losses.