Wednesday, January 14, 2009


Soon you will know to reach out and allow yourself
a candid frequency. A strong wind

of possibility blows a feeling or two of love hurt,
honesty and uncomfortably real like
ex-lovers spooning on a couch.
That was Chicago.
That was special.

A hangover and photos remind so.

A sign of relative zaniness. A calling of the bastards
to reunite in reality or escape from the gut-punch throw-ups
that maturate during copulating moments
in the orchard’s spring.

Pink lemonade, bitter marmalade, and
the darkest corners of our youth
sooths foolish abandonment.

Time has left dreams wasted and curses of the moon.
Smudged reflections, delicate flames heating erroneous passions,
cryptic hilarity of accidental collapse.

The turning gears of confusion shadow normal doubt.
Dejection prescribes this globe of dreary and deranged suspicion.

The dying superhero has plenty of time for forgiveness.
No leaps. No bounds.
Nothing more to solve. Nothing to be done.
No actions loud enough to sway persuasion.


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