(Wish I could remember the book I took these quotes from. This was an unconcious writing exercise. I choose phrases from a book randomly and organized it into something somewhat like a poem.)
We crouched on wet gravel
at the empty suburban park
before us three stories of columns
like patterns of Italian book paper.
Lucky, the skater,
he was the newest thing here.
his fugitive life
the stuff of metaphor.
My garden has no outside
black tulips, commingling of leaves
at the moment of dying,
incomplete until they’re opened.
The transit of almost translucent swans
upon night lover’s rendezvous,
like metallic particles
tattooing the water with the storm’s million fingerprints.
The gregarious sixteen year old
with his endless distracting monologue,
intentional gestures, running on almost mechanically
about how it is easier for a woman to panhandle.
No comments:
Post a Comment