Monday 7/20/2015 11:44:00 PM

life exists at angles much too sharp. loud and  deaf. uneven and trembling. a relentless series of  abandoned hopscotch fields and broken tethers. reluctant stones lost in gravity's narrow grip.

 remembered in whispers. happening in screams.

pictures. faces. distance. the pace of thunder. the sober of the storm. creases in the chaos that lick the marrow at the center.

eyes. skin. voices. the infinite geometry of the smallest moments.  somber sunday strays wandering abandoned streets. in search of places that only barely exist.

the little dog. the big demons. particles of gods in the molecules of men.

fleeting utopias that refuse to be forgotten. the beautiful poisons life graciously permits. the long shadows of ghosts in the dark attic of our mind. the short wick of hope that burns so briefly in our veins.

the math of it is simple. though the theory of it is complex. numbers. a slouching epiphany christens the flesh. a labored  bridge embraces the distance that moves us.  be it the expansive fever of strangers. or the narrow sickness of love.

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