If I still wrote poetry this is what it might look like

February 25, 2006 at 04:53 | Posted in Musings | 1 Comment

the tables on which i might have set,
slowly.
As Rocky Racoon collapsed in the corner,
or inside of what he was born from.
Callouses form on the outer layers of skin due to repeated abrasion.
leaves are falling off of trees right now;
in another half of the world it is summer right now, or winter, or fall, or spring (depending on when you are reading this).
Skin, like leaves from trees, falls from our bodies, year-round, and throughout our lives.
We are making snow drifts of ourselves, and we cannot see them, because time is intangible,
and so are
we.
I’ll not drool down my own esophagus,
I’ll not compose a symphony of my speech,
I’ll not be waiting for myself at the end of a tunnel of experience.
May fire consume my bones,
May light wear away at my flesh until I fade into an anonymous breeze;
I never understood,
I will never be a champion,
but my life was never mine.
A bit at which life chomps,
A moniker for an atom,
vertrebrae of shifting,
the cellular Zachary Moldof
is a temporary home for various functions, and interactions,
and like an ant this I canno t control.
Disaster always strike
with a purpose at its heart.

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1 Comment »

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  1. this is wonderful. http://www.danville.bvermont.com


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