Monday 1/08/2007 12:57:00 AM

It was going to be Monday soon and I wasn't happy about it. It was going to be Monday every week for the rest of my life. Sunday and Saturday too. Every day without rest. Feasting like buzzards on my corpse.

It was bound to rain. And snow. Everything that happens. When you're living. Listening to the world beating on your door. In ticklish sobs. The ringing. The messages. Everything you wish you could forget you were ever a part of. The ladder as you remember life. in all its futile stages. Rung by rung climbing toward the bottom to start over again.

The plastic forks piercing the lettuce. As picnics happened under your skin. The paper plates sweating our desserts right through to the glass. Transparency outbidding touch. In a coup of expectations.

The clean napkins still on the table. The empty take out containers the most metaphor I could accept.

RuKsaK said...

I come here and maybe it's bad intentions on my part, but I want to find something to critique. I want to read somethind say 'you could do this better.' Perhaps this is jealousy. Anyway, my search is futile - you turn fabulous lines laden with so much weight in them, but somehow they breeze onto the page as light as hot summer day spider webs.

Beautiful writing all the time.

alcoholic poet said...

i don't believe that ruk. there's plenty to critique. imperfect grammer. switching between persons. and the buzzards thing wasn't so hot.

maybe you're just lazy :-)

or else the sad black and white photo at the top is making you think i'm delicate.

kidding aside, you give the best compliments. wish i could come up with such beautiful comments to leave at your site. cause i want to. you deserve it.

but i just sit there with my jaw open, breathing through my mouth and staring at my fingers. not knowing what i could say to compliment the fabulous stories you create and the ingenius style you use to tell them.

see you at spilled to bloodness sometime soon.

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