Thursday, June 21, 2012



if only the hand
could keep pace with the mind;
it cannot.

I hold a pen
translating tough lines

it reneges

and falls behind like a fumbling drunk
following me home from a bar,

like a bereft dog tracing train tracks.

wires spill from their ears, everything becomes
untranslatable, inaudible files that keep looping.

I am their every mother/
they are my dead father.

without sense
I cannot run this yard,
or the next.

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