poem 4

I look out

and see myself sitting in my car

bent over, eyes like bees, hands mine but not mine

a finger digging, pointing into my ear

I am dying, I see

that I am, I

tune the radio humming parts of lost voices

I am wearing disgust disguised in it

swearing life away

the past is plodding onward in my cracked face

do I hate the body, will it come to me as I sleep this Sunday afternoon?

what will come but my fathers temper

clenched in my teeth

　

Reviews

[Emily B]

i don't know what to say, but wanted you to know that I came by and read your heart in the lines.

[Marie Anzalone]

And so in empty spaces we face that underlying immortal fear- our own death, passed, unnoticed. Wondering what remains as a legacy, what sould will remember of spirits. Compassion, intellect, anger, etc. I amnot sure it even helps to know that we all face these fears. Mine wake me up in a blind panic every now and then, isolated here where, were something to happen, it would be hard for anyone to get to me, Realizing that maybe I have a personality conducive at best to living a life of solitude in a dance around another's solitude. Wondering what it all means. That radio, K? Turn it way up. Sing to it. It's the only way through, sometimes.

[...]

moving beyond measure
indeed, rage is carried
by generations