long-walk home; I learn how to fly,
to let the kitchen fall, cell mate of the moon
I listen to the footsteps of waitresses
to eat like a bird, I await
the depth of December when all the
both turn a privacy
front way South and leave it twisting
now sensing it’s The bird, walking
the dying death,
damnedest to reveal death as nothing
and of death profound.
empty water glasses.
I sold August for a train escapade
and have a
shack that compels us
“silverware trashcan fires”
between spurts of rain. Turning the key
within my prison
for his tombstone. His hands now cold
June is the grooves beneath my shoes,
my father recounted mine
as the single siren
that wails through the downpour.
Into believing the sky has limits.
the broken bottles in the basement of restaurant
sometimes wise and monotonous hum of
follows me back up
all leading to the final
their e, forced –
that run-down about babies
because a cigarette,
while squirming on the sidewalk.
new song from the apartment,
identical doors one night down Barbuda, the homeless
as it slowly turns to ice.
in one last try,
as a man staring forever
into paralyzing floor grime, falls
on his deathbed,
tries his I Did Not Know, and now it’s
March, a prisoner has barred Out the
“here” – jail cell floor – and so long “For now,” I can only
sleep home for several hours;
before he died leaving
nothing behind amongst nothing
month to rest headlights.
January is life’s last few years,
gives it all to song
a pond behind a run-down shack
in the woods where I spend
obedient tongues and clinking
water, I’m tricked
return to SHAMPOO 37
- Comments: 0