Sunday 8/16/2009 12:59:00 AM

I wake up in old words that hardly make sense. Ugly conversations we had with ourselves. Huddled in a musty closet. Bent over a stack of atoms. That too closely resemble. The patents I once held on certain men.

I was never pretty. Pit bulls seldom are. But I got what I wanted for a time. And then I grew tired of the burden. People want so much for the little that they give.

We drew the stick figures. Bald bed sores contemplate smothered skin. We draw the pictures. Thumbing through the pages. Still shocked when they come alive. This weak autism loses us in each other. Three is too many. Two is not enough. I don't know physics. Except how it manipulates. Blinking graves. The dead tend to say too much. My flaw is that I listen.

I don't know how to travel time. Or that it is even possible. But I have seen the evidence. Men pale on the hem of their demons. Devil's locked in the stalemate of touch. I've been. And gone. I've tried to reason with the numbers.

It happens. Everyday. I add. They subtract.

Until we are back to nothing.

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