Wednesday 4/12/2006 11:26:00 PM

Isn't that his gun. Aren't those his bullets. The shadow in the bushes as the eggs begin to hatch.

I wish I knew why it hurts even when it doesn't have to. Or how I could learn to dislike it.

Start over. Stop the sperm. Warn the egg. Tie the tubes.

Living is one abortion after another.

Where to bleed and how much the only mystery.

Isn't that the trigger. Grinning again. Thirteen loops to make it authentic. Count. Count like you care. It has to be real this time. No fade to black. No rolling credits. Just over. Empty seats. Stale popcorn left.

Fallen ticket stubs full of strange fingerprints. As the aisles clear. As the lights come up.

This blank screen longs for an image.

lash505 said...

Very good I love it.. I use to go to this place in San Fran where poets like yourself are on stage. " A poor player struts and frets his hours upon the stage and is heard no more" macbeth

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