23 May 2014, 9:13am
Writing
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Archeology (11)

St. Vitus

How sound the ground is
Dear fog
Silver, pewter
I don’t know whether we are together
Or separate
Two beings have only one blissed eternity
Now
It used to be so much more possible
To dream
Now only grieving happens
At the end, a death dance
Only governed by a lonely memory

*

Caught in a wheel
I have seen this on an old screen print
I guess
Fostered there like a seedling
Pulling the image out now from a paper bag
I like to look at it
I look at you wherever I go throwing knives at me
Upside down my feet over my head over my feet

Getting vertigo in my
Saddlebag
In my satchel
Like a tourist toting death around Europe in a nine-dollar-and-ninety-nine-cent fanny pack

*

I want to be this good at my life as I am at pretend
It is easier
I should wish a scifi alien at my grave
Cyborg
Anything but a nurse in a hospital
They stick you with needles and then they do worse things

Call the doctor
Alan Alda from M.A.S.H.

They give you drugs and you battle back
For a while

I don’t know what I’m trying to say with this

*

As a governess you’d be horrible,
I know
As a wife you have been pretty good to me
And to all people you’ve met
I want you to know that
In case things go awry somewhere
Always thinking as I’m driving the back bumpy roads on my way to work and back
Floating in my head to some other dimension in space
Algorithm
But I think it ends up in a tree
Upside down tires spinning in a ditch

*

I will continue to make coffee perhaps
Even after I’m dead
Ethiopian Yirgacheffe
It’s a good one
Fruity and floral and you know, viny

Religion we had little use for
But as a ritual it was a good substitute
Sunday mornings late spring
Watching the sun rise playing with myself
and a good cup in a favorite mug
Begin to relax a little and realize

Then I would wake you

Will you pretend to love me after the alien show?

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