Thursday, March 22, 2012

o38

my folded hands talk to me in garbled tones
as my expressive feet carry my bones across the white space, only the dark hole of a window casts its gaze about, throwing aspersions to the shadows

Clouds beckon and cajole dreams to fly from my head
and so they do like dystopian puzzle blocks and dog philosophers
and despots on stilts that dance with bears

If I could be any black funnel streaming from an egg,
the moon warden, or a film star wincing as the cold steel of a gun presses to her temple
what would stop me from drawing rabbits

if that was what really turned me on?

2 comments:

  1. ok, i was all serious at first and then i dissolved into laughter in spite of the seriousness remaining - we are who we are. oh god, do i know it:)

    xo
    erin

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  2. The first stanza has it all for me. Excellent.

    ReplyDelete