Thursday 10/26/2006 12:34:00 AM

Love. Like gift wrap for the pain. Sex the Christmas tree.

I think the metaphor is self-explanatory.

He was correct. I'm no good to anyone this way. He tore on his best silver lining and began to quote books I'd never read. Or didn't remember.

Faulkner was my friend for a while. Dostoevsky too. Dead writers are the only ones who know what to say when nothing matters anymore.

His words chimed in my deliberations. But it wasn't encouragement I needed.

All I wanted was to know the reason. They listen when it rains. To songs I don't get to hear. Why they talk when no one listens. How they bite down into the sour of that moment and still find a way to swallow it.

With a smile of their faces.

0 comments:


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