When we hear
the whisper in the wind,
there's a small twist on your tongue
and it's tug-a-war with a double-edged sword,
like a cadence we cannot follow
as our feet
become one with the earth.

We are tangerine fields
of sultry bladed grass
shaped
to look like barbershop clippings
resting on the floor,
the broom of life shall sweep us away.

Ten-ton magazines
with giant premature-teens
clucthing themselves as the drool hits the page,
this is the way,
oh, the only way.

Then as Barbie dolls
grab your ipod and push you downstairs,
where the kid you used to kiss,
grows older with much better things to do,
and that telephone pole
with all it's leaning support,
crashes down around your ankles,
where her pants used to fall...

01/04/2011