Friday, November 26, 2010


She spent the night
coughing into her turtleneck
& slanting cynicism over the tablecloth.
The buildup was almost bearable.

(in a tryptophan daze)
This feeling weighs 10,000 pounds.
Slowly the art becoming coughs magic into the dust.
I've got love letters smoldering in my pockets,
their alphabet eyes blink once every 72 hours.
& the sleep is snagging me down
warmth on a steady increase.
The conversation sags like an unsupported dance floor.
From opposite ends of the room
loud laughter shuffles together like playing cards
or the shutter of a camera.
The repetition is more comforting that you might think.
You might think the numbers are onto you,
but the clock will forget you
the moment you close your eyes.

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