friends and strangers

Friday, Jan. 18, 2002 17:57

I should ask
that you not worry
about me, or my doings, or my thoughts.

When you do
the treasure of your expedition
only makes you want to choke
my red, burned neck.

Whether it's philly,
or Paris,
my time is still a conflicting duality of your demands
and of my love.

if you showed me the gate of Joy,
I would not hesitate
to enter
as I ignore my scars
that only serve as reminders
of false prophets
and messiahs-gone-bust.

The belly that captured your clawing and your bites,
still bares open, shredded tissue.
Sparks like downed telephone lines
flash through wounds
long hardened and atrophied
but never gone.
never gone.

If you turn around and find me,
sitting slouched
half-way in the gateway of your Joy,
it's only to
conceal my heart
from any more of your knife thrusts.


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dland exuant omnes your voice drifts away into lost binary alleyways it echoes photography

last five:
A Winter Letter - Wednesday, Nov. 28, 2007
almost but not quite - Wednesday, Mar. 22, 2006
rural times, blue skies. it feels so warm over my hair - Wednesday, Jun. 01, 2005
smiles and gone - Monday, Feb. 07, 2005
I caught my love in North Carolina - Monday, Nov. 29, 2004

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