Thursday 9/09/2010 12:37:00 AM

Paper epiphanies Wait. For the ink to dry. The colors turn over. In a rigor of skin. This flesh. A weak conveyor belt. Struggling to bring the world to us.

The holes have their own words. Places. Where the ladder isn't broken. And the knife is sharp. Small concessions. Numbers. Like dominoes. Constantly fall. I'm still awake. Though the dream continues. The scarecrow does its job. Frightening us. Away from. The places we belong.

The fairy tale accuses. The spiteful moral of the story overcomes. What little desire I have left. To deliver this picnic basket to that old woman.

One wolf. Maybe more. As the woods feign to part. The absolute resenting her time machine. An equation. Culled from the weak. A map drawn in the dark.

Finding much better what so many lights could not.

Laughing. Over comes in an instant. After praises the shovel. Every grave is a victory.

Close enough to the rain. To see. That I'm still dry. After the storm.

0 comments:


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