it's like songwriting
or freestylin
like a feather
floating
like those
puddles
of tangerines
swirlin'in the
pupils
of your
eyes, there
drifitng over

there,

in her
direction
the vivisection
then annexation
of her
bastion
no longer
a figment of
Napoleon's
imagination

you know

the flow

of these notes
over the tip
of your tongue
bent over
like
left and right
bereft and bright
a bite beggin you to
"big up yerself"
is the shelf life
of your forgotten
invention
quirky and copper
memorable and somber
as you comb over
those last grey hairs
as she
stares into the mirror
wiping away the steam
to reveal

another sort of portrait

05/10/2006

Posted on 05/11/2006
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