Hell, MI I lied about believing the lie. I’m tired of the water running out. That the ocean is endless, yet I will still be thirsty when I’m dead, buzzed on the miniscule reflection of stars, and the moon – that shovel with a face: some truths make nothing better. This is no kind of sonnet; I’m sorry. Poor moon I don’t want. Poor Shakespeare we can deposit in a boat. A single day keeps on ending like a diorama after the science fair. Like a book of psalms. Separate pillboxes. Whatever we ingest and then we are changed. I could have chosen to keep this to myself. Purgatory, ME When we think we become a structure. Box-like? Sometimes. Still, not very cleverly, we mostly react to things. Like getting alarmed by an alarm. Or by the used up goodnesses. Another example is how no one ever asks what a key is. We always ask what a key is to. There is no key to a doll head in the road, its eyes stabbed out. Somewhere in a house on my block there remains a box a doll should go in. At least, I don’t recognize the key in that scenario, which could mean my original intention may not have been the best. That has only just occurred to me. back |