Monday 12/11/2006 01:04:00 AM

August was ugly. September was beautfiul. We were holding the petals up to the stem. Trying to assign life to a dead bouquet. There were rabbit's feet telling stories on the corner. As the stretlights smuggled in shreds of darkness. So absolute.

He was facing the wall. Trying to find a crack. But I was already smitten with the door. Cold appeals to the justice love seldom flaunts.

In a calm obituary we wrote. Like it had happened to someone else. In the newsprint that stained our fingers we reveled. Like so many swings that continue to echo. Like the so many people who were almost that close.

RuKsaK said...

you're writing is beautiful. when I used to live in St.Petersburg (Russia - not Florida), I'd walk through the streets and the buildings felt so laden with history - stuffed, brimming with the weight of it, and it made me feel happily insignificant and at the same time like I was part of its historical mass. It made me feel like I was witnessing something.

The reason I say this is because your writing kind makes me feel the same.

alcoholic poet said...

even your comments are interesting stories.

feel free to critique sometimes as well. i respect your talent.

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