Thursday, December 9, 2010


Compelling phoenix.  She turns
time into morsels.  How, I don’t care.
No time to analyze her orchestration.
Voluptuous vintage.  Her.
We should write together.  Merely for 
the manner.  Sequestered, with an unseen
character.  You know you’re one of the pen when
the page pockets you.  I’m catapulted, away.
More than a flavorful fray.
Where are you going, she asks.
I say, nowhere.  I have to go, she throws.
My words: don’t dare.
Movement’s nothingness.  Deserted.
Session silenced, no more avidity blurted.

Mike stopped his typing.  There was no coherence.  Wasn’t that what he always conveyed to the minds in the seats?  He felt like a hypocrite.  Shut his laptop.  The letters in this notebook, blemished, terribly tarnished.  Experiencing odd, coagulated guilt.  Meter, disarranged.  But he shined in this blend, and the night’s cessation.  Argentina, he loved, thanked for the Franc interfusion.  The Room, theirs.  Under a kind cloak, he sailed to visions.  Peace...

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