your spine my hill

in french class every day i was stoned off my face. je m'apelle sweet pour-quoi et peut-etre je peux your spine something something.
that's how it it went every time.

Madame could not understand my slipping grasp of conjugation.
afterall, she'd say, ' je sais que tu sais la langue'.
je peux your spine something something.

i had built a house of all my habits, and i burrowed vigorously, with youth.
I played wheel of fortune, my locker filled with bottles of water, which worked like magic and vodka.
we wore strange hats and walked backwards.


My favourite was smoking when the wind was heavy and forceful.
We would sit on the large green hill. I would roll our business with expert precision. I had developed a reputation.


Down our noses, the thing burned a tiny, fire rose. The wind would be blowing, its gusts howling. But still, we would suck in. We would keep the smoke for ourselves, for a moment, winning over nature. And then finally, when ready (when filled enough with pity) we would breathe our compassion back into the air. It was about mercy for me, on that hill, where I told you how deeply I loved you. You put your head down, the way you always did before smiling, small and sadly.


You left and stopped coming to my big green hill. I stopped giving to the wind, and moved into the pharmacy.


On the bus i remember the shape of the grass, like pixels on my sick, infertile heart.
The mud there is thick now, and my memory is rusty with dew.
Je sais, je peux parler la langue.
Je peux, your spine something something.