Tuesday 6/12/2007 11:40:00 PM

I'm gone. Away from myself. The homily of casual sex resounding. Thudding. Pounding. Like club music to the seizures of bad dancers. In stutters of strobe light across frantic patches of skin. A maze of bee stings and ointment that turn all these scars to puddles of mud.

If only I were as weak as I accuse myself of being. I could gather those lies like people into a big auditorium. And they'd assume anything I said was true. I could make their lives better. Or worse.

Depending on my mood.

I could make pictures instead of just drawing them. And sleep without having to dream at all. And the future would give us gentle encouragement as we learned to walk.

again.

It's just your average bible story of resurrection minus a few gods.

2 comments:
Brian said...

"I could gather those lies like people into a big auditorium. And they'd assume anything I said was true. I could make their lives better. Or worse"

For me their is a cyclical irony in these words that is wonderful - the fact that "they" and "their" is ambiguous (the people or the lies?) Maybe you didn't intend the ambiguity, but it's great.

alcoholic poet said...

i intend everything i write.

well, mostly.

:-)



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