Thursday 5/17/2007 11:37:00 PM

Pick a word. Any word.


The clown in her crotch is merely circumstantial evidence of a circus that allegedly exists.


The Buddha in her bed finally found his nirvana in her dirtier wrinkles. Paradise is a dent in an old bed. A stain on a pillow. Paradise is whatever we choose to remember that has forgotten us. Hell is a substantial investor in heaven.

I held onto a postcard of a song that had too quaint a picture to turn over and read. Imagining the cliches on the other side of depression. The whisper of a dimming bulb devouring itself. My thoughts stale with the irony. Of every light that consumes itself thinking it's fighting the darkness.

The stringent suicide of truth in heavy bales. In wolf howls. In unfinished sentences.

Pick a word. Any one.

Pick a word.

Another self that will live on after this light has devoured itself.

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