you’re different daily
like bread.
flat and freckled staple
of countries that boast the minaret
one minute,
bloated and glossy loaf of the Ukraine
the next,
toast when you pick up the drink.
unrelenting manna,
contrived like sliced white,
dark drawers keep you from you,
I sometimes happen upon your raucous crumbs.
There isn't a mission. There isn't a goal. It's just words on fake paper, sliding and tripping and flowing all over the place, because we're all full up on words in here and there is no way we can keep them inside. Like Tony says, "Nothing in here is true."
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
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