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Thread: bury me standing

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    HB Forum Owner cutthroat's Avatar
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    <center>
    gretccc 1

    gretchen k. wernickeova</center>

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    HB Forum Owner cutthroat's Avatar
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    she shed cities like a snake's skin, the tail-eating serpent girl, leaving behind only deep gouges in the concrete and obscene gospel ringing from the tops of telephone poles. the fortune-slinger's great steel horse barreled endlessly down iron tracks that started at one ocean and crumbled off into the other, snarling and blurring the atmosphere with great billows of pollution across a dirt nation between her humble, skinny thighs. every new city came cloaked in the dawn's disarray, and she would claw up the embankment, shake the black dirt from her dreadlocks and trace, with calloused feet, the grimy veinwork of the city's streets to it's bustling steel-lined heart. half romani gypsy (with two handfuls of home in the bottom of her knapsack), half jersey turnpike trash, gretchen could read the sky as well as the cards and the distaste in the mouths of the working class, and when fat black clouds spelled out rain she knew that her lullaby would be raindrops like bullets on corroded tin roofs and the seductive whisper of self-illustrated tarot cards being laid out in crosses. up all night tracing the prison blue tattoo of cracked human teeth strung around her neck and breaking the future into pieces that could easily be devoured.

    after all, that was what she survived on, belly swelling with a million tomorrows.

    on busy lunch hour street corners, she would let her greasy mouth move in starvation, let her angled, road-weary bones babble desperation, using weakness as a language that everyone spoke eventually; and when that failed, she'd employ greedy, hustling ghost-knuckles to do the dirty work. and their meager donations (out of pity, and fear or stolen right from their wallets) put awkward lumps in the hips of her black denim jeans she'd literally stitched herself into years ago so that when she rolled out of town on the last train, she could add the chorus of stolen change clinking in her shallow palm to the verses of a roller coaster chugalug from the coal-gutted freighter and unpredictable murmur of her own heart and the phantom echo of the card's predictions, conducting her symphony of runaway motion.

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