Friday 3/03/2006 11:09:00 PM

It all teetered on the verge of being something. As so many things do.

I spent all day trying to do nothing. And not succeeding. In the way that the wind always blows. No matter how softly. In the syntax that defines how the program will function.

Holding the crayon. Unable to press it to the empty page.

I leaned into the shoulder of the moment and asked if it could let me know. How long a time it was in coming. How far it would be until the next.

Like their eyes are when you want to see what isn't there.

No moments of truth to wade softly through. All oceans.

Cold dominion.

With bottoms you'll never touch. And surfaces you'll never reach.

It's only change. That shadow on the mirror's edge as eyes confront. The slope of the rainbow as your treasure hunts you.

And we become what we want.

Or always were.

If we listen to ourselves. And can remember us.

Before this cold dominion took over.


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2018. All Rights Reserved.