Wednesday, April 25, 2012


I see my clatter
hear my look
oil my gun
savor my sense
discern my awareness
muddle my margins
synchronize my speech
in-vent my creations

I'm turning out, becoming
shards of myself
burst by some counter-invasionary force
whose Mother prayed
for It, also

But don’t feel too bad
if I had the first shot
it would’ve been It, not me
seeing Its sound
hearing Its face
touching Its odor
tasting Its feeling
intuiting Its ignorance
disorganizing Its borders
baffling Its tongue
imagining Its unmaking

Him or Her

As if by chance
one goes first
one after the other
to live

No comments:

Post a Comment