"slabs" poems
one April dusk the
sallow street-lamps were turning
snowy against a west of robin’s egg blue when
i entered a mad street whose
mouth dripped with slavver of
spring
chased two flights of squirrel-stairs into
a mid-victorian attic which is known as
O ΠΑΡΞΕΝΩΝ
and having ordered
yaoorti from
Nicho’
settled my feet on the
ceiling inhaling six divine inches
of Haremina in
the thick of the snick-
er of cards and smack of back-
gammon boards i was aware of an entirely
***** circle of habitués their
faces like cigarettebutts, chewed
with disdain, led by a Jumpy
***** who played each
card as if it were a thunderbolt red-
hot peeling
off huge slabs of a fuzzy
language with the aid of an exclamatory
tooth-pick
And who may that
be i said exhaling into
eternity as Nicho’ laid
before me bread
more downy than street-lamps
upon an almostclean
plate
“Achilles”
said
Nicho’
“and did you perhaps wish also shishkabob?”
11k
On a hot hot day
nothing better than
sweet sticky rice coconut
milk a big ripe mango
That, I felt, was what the fly thought
he touched down onto my mango,
it was so sweet, pouring
saccharine sweat
ripe slabs of yellow smorgasborg
endless pleasure of sugar mango flesh
it seemed good to the fly
Across the water,
pressing over the mountains,
opaque threads of rain, like
slim tornadoes twisting ash into the clouds
moved this way
things never looked good for the fly
He ate nonstop, boozed up on mango
an unlimited supply of yellow stuff
he gained weight by the second
there was no point in stopping
the more juice the mango sweat
the stickier its meat
the more mango the drunk fly ate,
the further he sank into its flesh
he was stuck, flailed his stupid legs
in the air as if more flies coming
would rather help him than eat
juicy golden mango feast
he died there, I think
the monsoon would make sure of it
I tossed the mango, sticky rice
the styrofoam plate
thinking it spoiled, fearing the rain
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 3:58 AM UTC
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms
will talk in ancient tongues
& sway the tribes of men to eternal love,
& endless ammunition
of the soul.
spiritus.
kin, galactic
& the golden fire.
throb the saga of man,
into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas.
we bury our dead in flower clippings
or skull bits.
[skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport]
thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon.
hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland,
her lips ruinous.
cement slabs and coils of fault with
vast artistic possibilities.
these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting
& rattling bone masks
grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics
& death.
their teeth are yellowy awoken.
this is all seen globally,
via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech.
or video.
dreams impact reality
impact dreams
in such
that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222,
evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge.
& it mutates the psychosphere of our mainstream public mind
with countless projected memories.
[streamed alternate realities]
fills the belly and the brain,
but all those unhooked are skating.
sweet meat market.
ghost harddrives.
poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men
& their poolside parties.
they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons,
their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit.
they hang chains from their necks
& spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click
lickings.
they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled
on old flowers
& worship archaic cassettes.
cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions
carve wooden planks from
groves of great oaks.
great oaken powers.
their creators chew gummies and bend time
to uphold
a proposed history of perfection.
they master pong from their crystalline towers,
& hire mathematicians to write
conceptual skate-deck algorithms,
solely for fun.
non-profit.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
What is the versatile autobiography
of this bountiful of rice
boiling in my American kitchen?
This crop of microscopic slabs of grain
that was the one edible source
of preventing my ancestors' emaciation
One of such few things
connecting me
to my roots,
those things I can't help but bleach
in whitewashed and rebellious peroxide.
I will valiantly hang my head down low in shame
at the examples of my flesh and earth,
"those National Geographic cavemen,"
all the time being the zoo animal,
being blindfolded and caged by
these "secular, American liberals."
I love this food
that I consume like a vacuum,
this merengue and bachata
that I so happily shake my *** to;
but nowhere did I sign up
for these commandments
that I was appointed
based on the location
that I popped out onto.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:51 AM UTC
Spiders.
Snakes.
Late nights, due to the fact that once I saw a possum in our garage when it was dark out.
Good looking people not thinking I'm good looking.
Holding children. I might drop them.
My brothers growing up to be just like me.
Shark attacks.
Jumping off high places.
Headphones that go too deep into my ears.
Going the opposite direction of so many cars. I'm the only one going my way. They're probably headed the right way. They're probably having more fun.
Realizing that, after being on the road for a while, my high beams have been on the whole time. Sorry.
Cockroaches.
Family reunions where I'm not sure if that really attractive girl is my family or someone's friend.
Climbing up the stairs of the Bombay ride at Wet N' Wild because there just slabs of stone I can see under. I could slip and fall right through.
Enjoying bad bands.
Letting my girlfriend look into my eyes.
Talking on the phone.
Growing up.
Refusing to grow up.
Reading this over if I ever finish it and realizing that I am something less than a regular human being. Probably an animal of some kind.
Frogs.
Big animals.
Waking up one day as the same person I always have been.
Standing still.
My parents.
Not spending the rest of my life with the girl I swore I would.
Texting people too often.
My parents dying.
Whales.
My teeth being this awful the rest of my life.
Braces.
Making people think they offended me. People never offend me.
Writing anything that's ever as good as Ernest Hemingway. How dare I think that I ever could.
Running too hard. My heart might burst.
Being unreasonable. Am I unreasonable?
Sticking my finger inside an air conditioning vent in a car. I don't know if there's a fan in there. I don't know if it'll take my finger off.
Getting people's hopes up.
Letting people down.
Fish.
Bees.
Being a teacher.
My laugh.
Wearing bad clothes.
Holding her hand too hard. I might cut off circulation. She might get mad.
My brother disapproving of what I do.
Heaven because it sounds awful doing the same thing for the rest of forever.
Finding out I've been gay this whole time.
Cracking my fingers.
Being a parent.
Whales.
Final exams.
Paranormal Activity 4.
Singing on cue.
Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
Eating insects.
Whales.
Silence.
The open ocean.
Whales.
Whales.
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
This isn't about front lines and deep mud,
it's not about sacrifice and bands of brotherhood.
It's not calling for silence or for national pride,
it's not about cenotaphs and those left behind.
No, this a thank you to one Ernest Page,
Gunner Sergeant, Royal Field Artillery, 182nd Brigade.
Thank you for ducking, thank you for dodging,
thank you for lasting, thank you for living.
Thanks for returning back home to Brockley.
Thanks for asking Gran and building a family.
Thank you for dad and for little Aunt Betty,
for Pam and for Pete and for cousins aplenty.
Thanks for Rose Cottage, for trips round the lake,
thanks for loud laughter and sleepy eyed late
mugs of hot chocolate and medeira cake slabs.
Thanks for my sisters, thanks again for my dad.
Thank you for surviving, and all that implies.
I owe you it all, I owe you this life.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
JOY ... weaving two violet petals for a coat lapel ... painting on a slab of night sky a Christ face ... slipping new brass keys into rusty iron locks and shouldering till at last the door gives and we are in a new room ... forever and ever violet petals, slabs, the Christ face, brass keys and new rooms.
are we near or far?... is there anything else?... who comes back?... and why does love ask nothing and give all? and why is love rare as a tailed comet shaking guesses out of men at telescopes ten feet long? why does the mystery sit with its chin on the lean forearm of women in gray eyes and women in hazel eyes?
are any of these less proud, less important, than a cross-examining lawyer? are any of these less perfect than the front page of a morning newspaper?
the answers are not computed and attested in the back of an arithmetic for the verifications of the lazy
there is no authority in the phone book for us to call and ask the why, the wherefore, and the howbeit it's ... a riddle ... by God.
3.9k
horns squawk
rainforest avenues
exoskeleton
of cars
arteries clogged
with unlovely taxi cabs
fat green fruit
for sale
five languages
merge into a knot
hisses kiss vowels
kiwis apples pears
black guys basketball
debt rises like blood pressure
stocks tumble
but we walk
brogues clop on concrete
count brick after brick
sun cascades
over roof slates
mind cracks in slabs
(you say
Monroe stood here)
heat quivers
men are dominoes
suits for the office
a funeral
designer sneakers
daddy paid for
pigtails cheap thrills
violet octagons
on a stranger’s neck
(behind the closed doors)
today
I drink purple water
aubergine lips
remind me
of a Tuscany Superb
list the names
Houston Charlton
Leroy Sullivan
Perry Cornelia
Dominick and Jane
(ladders lead
away from me
close to
you)
and back again
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
On the first day, he was pushed
robust in his stance, the other forced,
this boy down the spiral staircase
of the Catholic church, the school
had renovated, the Spring before
Isaac had begun his studies,
at the high school.
Ballet was his passion, Latin was the
language that so effortlessly, fluently
was spoken from his lips in class
as he smiled at his Professor, another
victory accomplished in academia
so proud were his parents, of their
blue eyed boy.
Jonah was the reject, the older brother
he had been kicked out of school,
not once, but twice, and was often
found with a joint, his unshaven face
wrapped around one of the girls,
from the all girls school that ran
alongside Isaacs all boys.
Issac was hurt, a further blow to his
stomach, rendered him broken
as a waterfall of tears ran down his
bruised and cut face, so ashamed
as other pupils laughed, staring, pointing
until the final bell rang as they fled from
the high ceilings and narrow corridors.
Wrapped in a ball, he waited for all
halls and students to clear, and as
he rolled over, picking himself up
he took to the washroom, knowing he
needed to be presentable for his mother
waiting for him at the school gate
brimming with pride, at her boys scholarship.
All his dreams, mystical and serene, Romeo and Juliet
fluid streams of poetry of Elliot, Poe, Hughes
and of course Wilde and those love letters of Beethoven
math, biology, all paled into insignificance
he was born a writer, a dancer, a drawer,
sketching and typing his heart to a page,
prose a future love would read.
Johan saw his mother's car pull up
as he raced and giggled with Saskia
leading her astray, he promised her all
the things those boys always did, and of course
not to break her sweet sixteen heart, unlike other boys
as his mother smoked another Camel, the two lovers
jumped into his truck, Johnny Cash blaring from speakers
laughing hysterically, the world at their feet.
By 4pm, Isaac was ready to leave school,
tentatively walking out the main door, down
concrete slabs as steps, no predators in sight
he couldn't hide the dark circles under his eyes
that formed as bruises, knowing he was fortunate
to have not been damaged further
by the haunting before last period.
Walking to the gates, he listened through
headphones; Tchaikovsky
his release
his home
his saving grace.
© Sia Jane
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
Chaos humdrum of roaring engines.
The lost siren between concrete slabs
Ricocheting its scream throughout
the hallway streets,
already echoing with horns and yells.
Sleepless and ever burning,
the city lurches on
in agonizing sounds
muffled between high rise pristine glass
and shanty shacks painted with dust.
The frantic commotion of agonized madness,
In zigzag traffic and potholed roads.
The stop and start of hustle and frustration
Rises and falls like a dancing dust storm.
Everything present in a quieter world
is lost in the struggle of city life.
There's no peace or silence here.
Just constant exhaustion in the luminescent roar of human chaos.
26 Dec. 2015
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC
Waking up to hazy mornings.
To the bitter cold days of
Early Spring.
I've never seen such a beautiful sunrise.
Nine o' clock cigarettes during
The morning rush.
Saturday morning cigarettes
That muddle my head.
The chilly air mimics the smoke
Spewing from my lips,
Toxins sticking to my lungs
Like glue.
It's another day in Paradise.
The dishes in the sink
Pile up in mountains.
Like the skyscraper laundry stack
Overflowing in the hamper.
Just another day in Paradise.
The street lamps glisten as strings of pearls
Their light reflecting off the silver glare of traffic barrels.
The flowers have not arrived.
The flowers have not bloomed,
And the anxiety is killing me.
Killing me like the coffee craving
Pounding in my head.
The flowers are missing,
Hiding from the stinging cold
Of early Spring.
I've never seen such beautifully dismal skies.
In the mild conversations about the weather,
I tell them that it's never been better.
In a way, it's never been.
I walk down the battleground of sidewalk
And tree roots, the slabs of concrete
cracked and marred by Mother Nature's
Will.
Broken etchings of hopscotch
Blur on the gritty surface, besides
The rose bush peeking out through the
Fence.
They'll never fix these.
Because it's another day in Paradise.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
pencil-thin shoulders
mess of dyed blonde hair and fake
strawberry grins
lost in movie ticket stubs stuck
to crowded multi-coloured walls stuffed
bears hidden under bedsprings, pent-up
energy like carbonation in sugary soft drinks
unsteady hands on composed aged shoulders,
unsure feet find their way on moving
slabs cleaning out bright blue backpacks
filled with words forgotten on
pages dried up like pens or discarded acquaintances
discovering heart-shaped cardboard tokens of February
infatuation pure unlike clandestine Friday nights,
pounding nervous with blood in pink seashell ears
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 7:27 PM UTC
THIN sheets of blue smoke among white slabs ... near the shingle mill ... winter morning.
Falling of a dry leaf might be heard ... circular steel tears through a log.
Slope of woodland ... brown ... soft ... tinge of blue such as ***** eyes.
Farther, field fires ... funnel of yellow smoke ... spellings of other yellow in corn stubble.
Bobsled on a down-hill road ... February snow mud ... horses steaming ... Oscar the driver sings ragtime under a spot of red seen a mile ... the red wool yarn of Oscar's stocking cap is seen from the shingle mill to the ridge of hemlock and cedar.
3.2k
It was lost on
a cold night, never
to be found again.
On cold pavement
slabs, my bottom
freezing but all part of
the fun.
She used me as some
late night fun, but it
was 25th December.
I'll never forget that
present, she unwrapped
and threw me away
when done...
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
For the lonely,
for the loveless,
for the forgotten and overlooked,
for the discarded and trodden on,
for the neglected,
for the ignored and mocked,
for societies weeds,
for circumstantial weeds.
For you outcasts are weeds
the flowers nobody wants,
but
weeds are resilient.
They persevere where others can not.
Often mistaken for weak, but no,
weeds are strong
and tough enough to break through tonnes of concrete
and metal.
Clever enough to find growth in places
others perish in.
Adaptable to every habitat and
brave enough to exist on barren wasteland.
Weeds need only the tiniest of a chance to flourish
For the unwanted,
for the unclaimed.
You are beautiful.
You are equal to every other flower.
You are the Charlock, the Buttercup, the Clover,
the Pinapple-May-Weed and so much more.
Next time you see a **** by the roadside,
or peeking out from a crack in a wall,
or between paving slabs in a busy city,
or overgrown in a garden,
or weaving through rubble and debris,
take heart
lonely ones.
You are not worthless
You are magnificent.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
Here are my eyes
my fried eggs
teal lily-pads floating
on white albumen.
Here are my elbows
like deformed peaches
my knuckles the peas
wrist corn on the cob.
Here are my teeth
my frosty Stonehenge
a ring of slabs
solid halibut.
Here are my ankles
four gobstoppers
cracking as rocks
under her size-five feet.
Here is my nose
fastened to my face
the garbage chute
meets hoover hybrid.
Here are my knees
two wrinkled potatoes
mashing in their sockets
as waves crumble on me.
Here is my hair
my straw candyfloss
unlike her buttered popcorn
curly-wurly waterfall.
Here are my tonsils
squashy strawberries
wedged at the back
of the cave I once made.
Here are my lips
azalea-pink sweets
flecked with salt
from our slice of sea.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
Keep your nose to the grindstone
echo and boom.
Tucked in shirt and buttoned blue collars.
Coffee, no milk, no sugar.
Pagans in a pageant
lifting slabs with slack hands.
Old muscles knotted and torn
a drone sound, stillborn as the childless playground.
Mocking and mundane
the bell rings and shatters the silence
leaving tools on the floor and empty parking spaces.
Nothing left but the weep of pigeons in the rafters
and the breeze that arrives
only after the workers departure.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 6:18 AM UTC
There's a funny sort of emptiness
that passes over me
as I walk past the paperback erotica that tuck themselves away
in the shelves of the local grocery store in places that are
simultaneously completely out in the open yet completely ignored
looking, as I do, with mock casual interest
and unfeigned disdain.
Who are these intended for, really?
Are they for the snuggly-wuggly, ***** cozy-woozy, wishy-washy and warm family of four
comparing chicken nugget prices and
weighing the health benefits of
vegetable medley versus succotash?
Or are they for the uni flatmates
walking huddled together for warmth or protection or both,
seeing as they're wearing only sandals and denim shorts
and this is the first time
they've been grocery shopping without mum,
that giggle loudly together to mask how homesick they really are
while they compare the calories in
Campbell's versus Progresso.
They went with Progresso if you were wondering.
Or are they meant for those who are cooking for one?
For those who have no need to compare prices
or calories
out loud.
For those who are well acquainted
with the old, familiar tiled aisles
as they have no one to take out to dinner.
Is this where they are to find company?
Betwixt the pages of a badly penned,
lighter than marshmallows,
more shallow than the kiddie pool,
more transparent than Casper,
not-good-enough-to-be-bloody-compost
"literary" garbage?
Is this -assumed- female
supposed to curl up with one of these slabs of drivel
and feel **** and aroused
in her baggy sweats and ill-fitting hoodie
after she ate a microwaveable chicken *** pie all by her lonesome?
As a single girl who often cooks for one,
I am offended by this.
Personally,
I think Lestat is ten times sexier than Edward,
Salai is way cuter than Fabio,
and Christian Grey couldn't S Mr. Rochester's D.
What I'm saying is-
Grocery Stores.
YOU are the primary reason for this pathetic f-ckery.
Everything else in the store can be compared for quality.
So why not apply that same knowledge
to the book arena.
Signed,
A Concerned Shopper
p.s. Please extend the validity date on the chicken *** pie coupon. Thank you!
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
Somewhere deep in the skies of Montana
a lonely street corner flickers
casting coded light
upon the distant albino hillside
It was once a great lake
of snow and ice and melt and
unseen by life
It drained and died
and its beautiful lakebed sands
became the hillside
again
to tumble and fall
into valley and time
again
there we built an impermanent road
we pave and pave
maintain
with trucks and slabs of dirt and grain
roaming those Roman roads
again
Somewhere deep in that heartland
the strings that pumped the musculature
of a dying nation
slowly giving way to a violent attack
from within
oxidize and pool
into great tides
to one day see the coast
I am in California
but I see it clearly as a dream
where the great plains meet the mountain face
and the Cheyenne carved their heels into the dirt
for a bit
spirit
eroded into the winds
today the miners spit
at a coffee-town bar
into copper cans
licker than split
Owning the land that shakes
and shifts
redrawing god's lines
with a paper pad and a pen
for a bit
And the dresses the ladies wear shine
lacquered wood and the horses cry
and beside the interstate
the trucks steam and chuff
and their drivers gaze starry-eyed
onward, beyond into the night
beyond those flanking hillsides
to the flat ocean land sponged anew
that left the oil fields in Texas and the tar sands in
Athabasca
set ablaze in the fervor
of a death rattle
American heart
pumping to feed these hillsides
again
for tomorrow we begin.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
glass windows
crystal panes
quite mesmerized am I
colored parts
crimson shards
I wish to have you for my eyes
womanly arch above my head
your shapes are all that I have bled
my story starts like your creation
there was a time when all you were
was magnificent idea
in the mind of a man
a quiet plan unwelcome in the land
a time when you were a naked chaos
trampled by cattle
the dust watched your birth
you rose screaming from earth
men cursed while they worked
a torture
an eyesore
with potential at best
Barren poles for arms
Slabs of marble legs
when your beauty arrived
all were surprised
and verified the validity
of your maker's pride
his blood, your paint
his teeth become your enameled wall
the iris of his eyes, your windows
his mind the crowning dome
his life the mascara of your shadows
the bones are at rest now
no one pounds out their song
on the old wintry walls
and the days are long
the wounds shown are old
long out of style
you will soon recover from man's victory
and slip back into old ways
for from dust you were taken
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC
the clay watched with rented breath
the red robe genuflect before
the dirt-dark nailed wood.
strange words were uttered
choral echoes flew
they too would bend their knees
those veiled long hair
those oval faces with scanning eyes.
the red robe spoke
they moved the corners of their mouths
till they were too far
they nodded, and nodded, and nodded
they did not know how to stop.
the red robe did not speak
he read from two slabs.
the air cracked by a
tip-toe cadence of metallic muttering
they held their breath
but there was panting.
with one unseen flicker
that stole as fast as
light shot from up beyond
there
perched on that dirt-dark nailed wood
a dove of light of blinding vaporous whiteness.
we hid our eyes.
our faces too.
we only saw a tall slender spiral staircase
that ascended a long, long,
long way.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
Thugs
Go to Stanford.
And the construction workers
I've seen
Are more likely to spend
Their downtime playing
Video games
Then smoking the ****
And I've seen my
Fair share of manic,
Wide-eyed young Filipinos
Like myself,
A little browner,
A little more beautiful,
I'm a little more racist
But
It's not okay.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
I guess what I simply want to say
Is there is a simple joy
To watching fingers
Of all kinds
Mold and shape futures,
Whether it be in the form
Of softened concrete slabs
Or the hard writ
Of word,
Whether it taste
Of exhaust smoke
And leather
Or orange juice
The school
Is the sky
The blue sky and the
Fields and university
Is a gold-ringed
Fist and in this
Respect we all have
Our PhDs.
And as for this sheltered
Unsheltered rooftops
Holed like ozone
World we've all built together
Well,
We try to find words for it
And collapse.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
Stone slabs descended down,
forming a staircase straight to hell.
A sea of screaming miasma suffocated
either side of the winding venture.
The light of the world above no longer
registered as darkness swallowed this place.
It seemed that whether forward or back,
this road was infinite.
Finally, after endless time, the monument
of this suffering came into view.
The blackest Obsidian rose beyond
comprehension and without feature.
Voices wailed and tension bloomed
in ominous agony.
And as it called out, a liquid wave of
familiarity poured in and around me.
The door, once unmarked, split down the seam
as I came within the final stretch.
Understanding drowned my mind,
as I pressed my palm against its surface.
Instantly, with a deafening boom,
it swung open on ethereal hinges.
Walking through, in bewildering clarity,
what was one became two.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 8:06 PM UTC
when my faith is tested
i recoil into the lurid nest
by moonlight, by the sound of a lyre
whose blood whispers dank currents
into the low hillside.
and over the hillside
pour screaming maenads
who pluck from the damp ground
snakes for their altars.
a timid peak out of my grotto reveals
a crawling sailor scattered on the rocks.
Apollo’s choir releases hymns
from underneath dark sediment.
i am secure inside the den
the man writhes on the shore for help
but even if i let him in,
i will consume his rooted soul,
so he dies one way
or another.
foot
steps
does he really wish to
become absorbed by this
dark cloak? where he will kick
and drool and never again
see rain stretch over the Aegean?
as i have not seen past this
constant haze of lead,
an infinite bang on a finite drum i
played long ago into infinity?
and the swirls
of infinity
shedding outward like the
tresses of a fire haired fae.
a sprinting sugar fae,
the wind inside the hair
outside her head,
blowing behind her.
she dashes through the wood
until her feet fossilize
within the rock below.
one day several naturalists will find
the slabs of granite
and make a map of elegant
collarbone etched into hardened stone.
all the while i will guard this cave, alone.
and if my foes send winds as
messengers, i will saunter in
amusement, with an olive
on my tongue
the wind cannot destroy
the seashore,
the moon and sun
command the tides.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 10:00 PM UTC