Saturday 12/11/2010 11:44:00 PM

the cold is a foundation. firm and thoughtless. we will build from that. as time starts counting from nothing and never has an end.

a shuffle the beads. the abacus in his forehead groans. the numbers ask. what she is doing. counting. that's all. or trying to do so. in this theoretical prison.

finding the nucleus. knowing that the atom has pieces. like the rest of us. that it can be broken. but not without consequence.

facing the moon. chiding the stars. for dying before they reach us. it's a long story told in whispers and hush. it's a hollow victory. when the strays stop scratching. because she's stopped feeding them.

the window suggests. strange worlds. the bias of truth. the indiscretions of trust. the corner in her mind on which the whores gather. to laugh at her invisible clothes.

the cold is real. everything else is simple arithmetic.

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