untitledI'd run errands and text-work for pushers in labcoats,
But running for my prom queen tastes just as sweet.
Wide-eyed, in a flashing sweat,
While running your campaign
Or should I run miles to Brooklyn, New York,
To catch up with imbeciles, and prophesy with cats?
I'd start packing both our bags,
Just in case.
preperatory requiemI close my eyes, and look to the trees
I close my eyes to
A thousand visions and revisions,
fly past my sewn eyes.
Eyes that would not,
See what was below and above and beyond.
One deep breath, and we move on.
The woman told me there were no eyes here.
Yet in my mind's eye,
A thousand visions,
A thousand ribbons, rippling and lilting in the wind.
Exhaling air and dust.
Footsteps on the sand echo in the valley of my design.
I crane my head to see, but my eyes bring me only darkness,
shadows and visions.
"I am a prophet," I would say
as I'd claw frantically at my sockets.
"What art thou," I'd cry, "that usurp'st this time of night?"
I know not the needlework of my visions.
It was not of my design.
Yet all movement stopped.
"And here's no great matter," she'd sigh.
"But who will anoint me," I'd cry, "deny me and scourge me?"
Eyes sewn shut to the beauty before me, I groveled.
Eyes sewn shut to the hovel before me, I'd shudder.
"Who," I woul
heatstrokeAfter a fortnight's journey,
I arrive in the desert.
Arms spread open to greet her,
To embrace the Sahara.
Lay with me."
A dull roar of heat,
Bearing down on my frail form.
I could have chosen to turn back.
To push ahead.
Lay with me."
I lay down my messenger bag.
A canteen, Seiko watch, and rosary beads.
"These have no place here."
They had no purpose there.
The white and azure Saharan sky
-intersected by a lone pale cloud-
Quickly turned to tyrian purple and vermillion.
Pale yellow sand to sanguine with the setting sun.
Sanguine and fleshy,
Fleshy hues upon my back
Transversing valleys and gorges
Slowly growing like tallow,
Rendering a pale yellow sallow.
Settling for a pale, streched sallow.