Saturday, September 11, 2010


The shit builds to the sky - blue over yellow, pink. Profanity lays heavy over my beer numb tongue, buzzed like an empty headache in a tepid evening bath. The world engaged around me: traffic coming from - going to, birds singing the end of their shift, trees nosily calling the cold front with silver hands up raised. When will my number come up in this empty waiting room - for my life to begin again, or did it ever? These loose metaphors, ungainly stitched, split wide, and with no words that fit, the shit covers the floor filling the one bare spot I found to find myself barefoot in calm repose staring bleary-eyed at the vicarious North.



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