Tuesday 9/16/2008 01:00:00 AM

The fly remains in the amber. The man remains in his clothes. Closer to god by the indignities of wealth.

She takes off her clothes. To fool them. Into thinking she is lost. The empty plastic skull. Holes. Blackened eyes whispering their secrets.

She had made revisions. Broken bones heal slightly askew. She had counted the distance. Between men. And determined. Keeping the bad ones was better. Than looking for the good.

Talking to the dogs. Arguing with the rabies. The infection warms her. In ways that they never could.

Maybe it's better to die like this than to live that way.

0 comments:


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