Friday, September 7, 2012

poem number one million

The ribbons
of this predicament
come curling up and off
growing into the empty space
forking at the base
of my tendons

The rhythms
shaking us to the filament
are not enough
in the still wild wake
of the diseased watered lake
of the feelings

The rhythm ribbons
of shaking us to this: the predicament filament
come not curling up, enough and out
growing into the still
wild empty space wake
forking of the at,
diseased the watered lake base
of the tendons
of my feelings

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