Sunday 3/05/2006 11:33:00 PM

He wondered why he was still there. Holding skins discarded. From faces he couldn't recall.

Melted lives with the eye holes still in them. Pooling like clay in his hands. Flesh crayons.

We don't change. We just listen better sometimes. To the sound of our lies.

He had everything he wanted. And nothing. One finger always on the clitoris of happiness. But its legs would never open.

What he wanted I suspect was proof. That he'd lived.

But where can we go. To know. Who we were before we chose them. Or know what we'd be if we hadn't.

He crackled like a radio. So lost in the airwaves. Without a word it always sounded so lost. So much water to tread. So many oceans to ask.

We used to say time will never know. Or prove us wrong.

But now we don't say anything at all.

Drawing with flesh colored crayons on broken skin.

2 comments:
Bonnie said...

Looking for Rick Crockett who published "Flesh Crayons" in Portland Maine in 1978.

Bonnie said...

please contact me at bblythe@maine.rr.com.



| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.