Waiting for the wind to listen kept her busy. The things it would say not so much. The catapult on the back of her thighs. Straining. To contain all that violence. Miles of skin. Blank chalkboards. Begging to be scratched.
Causality and collusion in volunteering her thoughts for experiment. One time line. Then two. Then a hundred. A universe of champagne spoiling over her lips. LIke beads of sweat down the backs of burdened men.
Death comes not in the somber garb we assign it. But with a humor and a sarcasm befitting our narcissism.
Talking to the wind in obvious metaphors. She's not surprised when it asks her how long it has been.
It doesn't matter what has happened. A thousand times we've already done it. What's the harm in doing it once again.
Friday
2/26/2010 12:33:00 AM
| Life Poems |