What Happens To The Rest Of Something

My Mother Said, "kiss Him, Darling, It's Easy So Natural" And I Thought To Myself, Not With Lips Of Stone, Dear Mother, Not With Lips Of Stone

The Most Beautiful People Are The Ones That Don't Look Like One Race Or Even One Sex.

It's Not That I Literally Think I'm A Fearie. It's Just That I Feel So Different From Most People. And This Idea Of A Race Living Underground In Caverns, Spending All Their Days Dancing And Playing The Fiddle And Eating Flowers And Reciting Poetry And Sharing Their Dreams, That To Me Sounds Much More Real Than The Way People Live In This World, Hating And Fighting And Wanting And Hurting.

I'd Sit Around Dreaming That The Boys I Saw At Shows Or At Work - The Boys With Silver Earrings And Big Boots - Would Tell Me I Was Beautiful, Take Me Home And Feed Me Thai Food Or Omelets And Undress Me And Make Love To Me All Night With The Palm Trees Whispering Windsongs About A Tortured Gleaming City And The Moonlight Like Flame Melting Our Candle Bodies.

L.a. Kills People.' Jacaranda Said. 'you're Lucky You're Leaving. You'll Be Able To Write.' She Looked Paler, Going Through Another Depression, Smoking In Bed In Her Lilac Room. The Walls Were The Color Of Her Veins. She Was Getting Too Thin, Even For The Modeling. . .jacaranda Died Last Winter When The Flowering Trees Were Bare. You Couldn't Even Tell Which Ones Once Cried The Purple Blossoms She Named Herself After.