Jan 12, 2004


Smoke clumps in sluggish bunches,
taxicabs creep abreast,

Platinum smell of snow,
the peal of the alarm
clock, the sound of my own heart

Tyrants in the winter,
all the old games.
My thoughts fall,

She opened her skin
for the Colonel, the Colonel
who did not speak
a language.

Behind the hood
of the sun
is a Wendigoo &
he swallows us all

January chiroscuro,
bouillion days, dial
random numbers
on the phone for
to say all these things
make me
think of you,

the plaster of these
walls, that's not mine,
either, how

space abhors those
who must go without:
food, shelter, sex or
what have you.

Generalissimo, I
arrange an army
of trinkets, which in these
blankets are
harder than diamonds.

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