not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Friday, August 31, 2012

the call

in the riverbed
i bend to wash my hands
as water-worked stones

in the forest
i scratch my face against the ghost of moss
constricted upon the poplar's coarse bark

as the morning lifts
i breathe
readying my bloody heart

oh, my dirty dirty soul
oh, my one tooth in time
- living

somewhere there exists a quiet and empty room
it calls me back through the slag of my matrixed marrow

yes, it says, one day, yes
perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow