Saturday, August 23, 2008


In a crook the corners push
my tush. The cloth of dress
causes duress as it scrapes
when shook by paper
paleness a quill and
inkwell took. In a glimmer
of little silver sun reflected
moonbeams it seems my
jittering frame is an
arrow too big for its' quiver.
I shiver not from some
draft of cold come aft from
old cellars hatched against
storms where worms turn
in pickled bottles, dirt
excreting, deviled egg
eating. Nerves deliver
shakes through my spine
these wooden confines
come incomplete: where's
comfort, room for head
and feet? No sooner is
one set down nice'n easy
than the other's squeezed
out, teased from this
narrow gap, like a pea
pinched from pod by
fingers. Damn! Spilled
my well. That'll do for
poetry. Guess I'll crawl
out of here; don't need
any torment to
perform a soliloquy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Now I'm comfortable

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~my enemies are dead.

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