In the crevice of a falling star yet to touch the ground, be seated. There is so much to see, so much to do but that façade should wash away as a subtraction is beginning to take place.
I am a scribe
Dip – scratch, scratch, scratch
My pen glides across dead trees
Hand over of crumpled bills without eye-contact,
Clock ticks over to the bewitching hour.
Internalize – assimilate – replicate
You sad parody of a sackman
Eat, drink, fuck.
I too
Wanted to Experience
That interminable agony
That they felt
So I sat
And sat
And pondered.
How does one measure?
Is it in years?
Seasons?
Congealed blood, salt-less tears
Or wrenched intestines
Forming an unbroken link across
The belly of the Atlantic?
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