For the moment
she rests her head
against the knotted bark.
An alien swarm of voices
crouch in shallow darkness
fermented and seeping vinegar
through her tense and flinching skin -

translucent rainbow bottle rockets
collide, crackle imploding on synapses,
Pulsating
and illuminating oiled glass cases
concealing the grubbed ticket stubs
detailing occasions
and names she'd rather forget

"they stole the lilac from my shadows,
tore the starlight from every gutter"

between blinks she exists in motion,
fluttering.
Never lingering on dusty tomes
or mildewed volumes of psyche she keeps.

She breathes smoke and diesel fumes
impatient with shells of thought
creeping in the wake of guiltless beings
whispers nettles, shouts in thorns.
Her song is bullets...

{Whets the spoken knife, tastes her blade

- and throws}

03/18/2003

Author's Note: Ever wondered if the pen is mightier than the sword in practice? I guess my mind is set for conflict, both on a slightly personal scale and of course with reference to what's going on in the world at large. I tend not to write about current events in my poems so you'll notice the lack of context, but I can't deny the fact that I am thinking of the people I know who were shipped out over the last couple of weeks and those who are ready to go. Also, it was about time I took my pen for a walk. Its been a while.

Posted on 03/18/2003
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