Sunday 25 January 2009

Trees.Like dendrites.
Dot the path. Equal to a connection.
Equal to the little dots of the crowd.
Faces dot the way. Heard it was good instinct.
Dashing past criticism, fidgets shuffles grinning.
Exasperated from giving. Sighing for fun.

Dash mark slash mark, an ugly part from the end of his colon.
Semi-swinging his poison pen leaking. Across the street right now.
The black curtains have a station they observe.

See myself there doing what I deserve.
Saw me and into a bleak infinity
an internal rhyme scheme a communal wandering We.
Filled with viral holes that creak. The moon is made of these.
Estranged from myself, I scribble about disease.
Creative to share a plow, stuck in the ruts of a mummified oxen carcass slumps.
Birds like words dash and land on sun bleached horns.
Dot marked little toes and a small pointed beak.
I do this now.
It is happening to me. It is happening to you. It is happening to us. It has happened and it is over. The night ends and you are at home.
In the end is a dot.

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If you think you think you should heed the warning of your mother and sister and not risk uncertain sorcery,turn to page 25


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