Sunday 1/17/2010 12:29:00 AM

Components of the whole. Sputter and soothe. To the quiet of the future. All absolutes abolished. Every proof denied. Years of hollow cocoons searching for their missing butterflies.

Keeping the math in small packets close to her chest. She manipulates the fractions. As a whore would a horny man. Choices, she confesses. Are made in the empty seats we save. For people who aren't coming back. I haven't built a time machine. It was an accident of sobriety and skin.

I haven't seen the future. Just been seen by it.

Bases of the fraction. Debating the circle. How many degrees. Her empty pockets paying the toll on falling bridges. Carving her triangles in the soil. Now that the mountains are not real.

The pattern is there. Her body is ready. To discover. Those stifling mysteries. That keep the tiger in its cage. That deprive the bird of its wings.

She is ready. She is prepared for what's out there. She opens the door, but is betrayed by the machine.

Angles. So many of them. Like leeches. Spoiling the geometry. Of when. Skin was linear. And I knew what to do with the circles between us.

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