Sunday, September 03, 2006


there is a rift between who you are
and who you want to be. ideal skirts reality

finds it lacking. this is no eipiphany this
is not new. everything you ever thought you thought

novel was just a repeat of a former life
which you were running from, looking for your home.

today your hair is tangled. small tradesmen
offer matches and celibacy for a dime. your curls

spill over your eyes and blind you to astrology's
next maxim. what will you do with the leavings?

once you thought you wanted a modicum. spoonful of fame,
dissolving into your morning coffee. once you wrote

and signed your name. but no more. age and its blinders
come to take you now, lay you in the mortuary

where you breathe like all the others-
not at all.