Tuesday 1/22/2008 01:01:00 AM

Eyes like bus stations. Terminals. Where the end meets with the start in a paradox of confounded senses. The taste of transport. Tin and calm as we jump through these portals called memory. The stories our brains tell when confronted with limits.

Skin. Its subtle time machine dropping us off in moments passed. Places where the bone is all we are. Decorations in place of the person. Hanging loosely. The meat falling quietly off.

Someone else's dinner. Or the knife that cuts it. Someone else's broken arm. Or the cast. I see the pictures in row of numbers. The drawing counting how hard it is. To prove it means something.

I have the pictures. I know the men. It's myself I forget.

I have the language. I know the conjugations of the verbs. It's the tense that makes me feel foolish when the stories want to be told.

Searching for the next nightmare. In bit of skin left over from the demons we've chosen.

Hot spigots at the back of her ass. Pissing reasons to wait a little longer for the war to end.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.