Wednesday, June 15, 2011


The white noise of hissing trucks,
moths frying in mercy lanterns,
an old friend traces circles with gentle lung
while the fire makes dying footstep drumbeats
and night bugs sing waves.
I almost set myself on fire with a candle I don't need,
wishing I were drunk instead of remembering past poems
saved on a broken cellphone,
gone now
and hollow my heart's mute fingers.


Backseat seasick,
wanting handfuls of round supple steering wheel,
head bouncing on glass instead,
already missing breakfast.
I should've stayed up when I woke up
sweating and sick of dreaming before seven,
blood caked on my blistered feet
burned hands from improper vices
spun from spider webs dull with falling ash,
thirsty for water or vodka.
My letters slip from clumsy grip,
god is dog.

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