Tuesday 9/05/2006 11:31:00 PM

"Who are you talking to?", he asked.

"Myself", I said without a trace of sarcasm.

There's only the one voice, but it has so many things to say. Pleading with the rope to tighten as it limply squeezes the tree.

Who am I talking to? I'm talking to us. But we don't listen.

You're not there I thought. This earthquake in my skull has no source. No center.It doesn't even really move. It's but a tiny rock surrounded by lifetimes of ocean. Smaller and smaller still as each wave speaks to it.

It was March and I still had clothes I could wear. The kind that make women of girls and boys of men. Slipped into as nylons. Other skins. Barely there. Drowned in as bottles. The morning after my only witness.

I'm as innocent. And as guilty. As anyone.

For wanting what isn't mine.

Who am I talking to?

No one.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2021. All Rights Reserved.