November 2 2013


The sun squints

Clouds writhing

Flightless around

An oyster-flecked


There is no day

Without hindrance


The suppression

Of umbrage

I am certain only

Of discontent


I just want to write

Until my fingers

Fall away wet and viscous

Like torn fruit

I just want to rise

Effervescent against

A taciturn tongue and palate

And speak unabashedly

About anything

So long as that anything

Doesn’t involve

A habitual complaint


2 responses

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s