Thursday 3/19/2009 12:42:00 AM

Sometimes it's yourself that you stumble upon. After too many hours of drinking back the years. You unfold the rabbit and test out its ears. The things you'll hear. Make you wonder. Do words exist. Did anyone ever speak to me. Or have I always been deaf. Just putting faces on the silence. Paint the tiger. Steal its stripes. Crawl inside the furnace and pretend there is no winter.

Talk to yourself. Stranger to stranger. Explain. How it all culminates in this discussion. Turn off the stove and take a peak inside it. Dead things with the skin falling off for dinner. Dry heat and bones draw their pictures on your grave.

Keep calculating. Keep talking to yourself. Clench those grenades. Toast the explosions. Naming the raindrops. One. Two. Three. Twelve. Gathering at the window. With a bucket full of selves.

No equations. Just random sticks. Beating the mud. Ugly caterpillars. On the end of the branch.

Holes in every leaf. And still famished.

Talking to myself. Or someone who looks like her. Trying to explain. How many times we've already had this conversation.

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