Friday 6/02/2006 11:40:00 PM

Small conjectures. Long hairs on slender legs. The evolution of love has no room in it for imperfection.

My failure to influence is citation enough. Pay the fine. Admit the cover can tell the book. We've changed. The first pages is already too deep.

Sitting through the thunderstorms. The lightning too close to my wrists. I imagine where the blood goes when I let it stay in there. Looking for words to tell me how much it will hurt to be swallowed by the red. I don't know, but I should.

Turning like beetles on our backs. Stale crescendos. Such a brilliant symphony we pretend. Feathers imagining they are wings.

I know what I am. Paperless crayon. No name for the color it tries to be. No label for the all the outlines it's filled in.

Just the staccato of the hour as it attempts to extract music from this din.

We want to be Tolkein, but Star Trek is all we are. Orphaned Klingons. Hoping to die better.


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