Sunday 7/16/2006 12:11:00 AM

It's all about nothing. Dead things fluttering in the breeze. The doorknob on the dresser turning with the sunset. My sneakers walking in the shadow's steps. It's not real anymore. Poetry plays the heart's taxidermist. Moments frozen and mounted like caught fish.

It's all about nothing. The faucet's on, but the valve is shut. But the monkey still thinks he's dancing in the puddle.

It's about the words. Not what is. Nor what was. Tools only for creating something from nothing. Experience my marble. Thoughts my chisel as I cull the images from its veins. Always. It needn't be real now. Only to have been then.

Dredge the river until a new corpse is found. Doesn't matter whose it is. Because I need something to write about. I will find a way to feel even when everything is dead.

Anonymous said...

Quite a struggle you have on your hands, running out of the past. If your not carefull you might wind up at now... or if it gets really bad maybe you'll wind up in the future writing sci-fi.

Hope your well....

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