Friday 5/11/2012 12:15:00 AM

I would measure him in stutters. A focused repetition. Like everything must be. Loud and feeble. Keys stuck in the lock and soiled  handles. Short drives that take too long. We're always going to or leaving. Never are. There.

As if there is a place. A black stab on a map. Where it all converges. The crumbles of flesh and the gnashing of touch and the speed of the hours. In a beautifully controlled chaos called destination.

I would draw him in pencil. No colors. Just grey. Soft mutable lines. To trace the whisper of his words. The frail thunder in his voice as he would gently drift away. Into the vacuum of his loneliness. A victim. A monster. A friend.

No voices. Just skin. Like carbon paper. Picking up. Imprinted with what's on top. No reason. Just a game. Throwing and collecting stones. An empty dance. To the music of touch. Choreographed by the deaf.

Little women and smaller men. Fluorescent fingers charm the corners. Of dark rooms impatient with flesh. Her beautiful time machine panics. Gone too far. And no way back.

0 comments:


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