he reaches the lid
feels the wind as it blows life back
keep floating in the mud
the trashcan is dumped
he gently changes bags
while hearing the crackle
of charlies' deaths
traffic lights all red
the truck stops at...
the truck stop
whatever...
all connections lost
no light travels
all we have is a red sky
and some arsenic
for the acid
in bacteria
california is right there
but florida is waaaaaaaaaay
back there.
2 comments:
not to touch the sky.
thanks jim, for not living to screw the legend.
it seems to be something about alcohol wishing to be acid, though the only thing that really makes you trip about is arsenic-fueld bacterias in california or maybe the cars comming and going alone over the street in front of your place
would it be just the sensation of being alone and the certainty that this state will not change until the whole night ends that allows your heart to give life back to your poetic brain?
Sometimes i ask myself why haven't you been writing as you used to for so long...
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