Thursday, January 30, 2014

A WALKING ANEURYSM

It's almost sweet
the way your light heart first starts
to feel slight pressure

as
redgold smithereens
of another early-

dawning winter 
morning—gradually get drawn together;

as those 
smoldering shards 
of last night's quaking silver 
dreamstuff then start

swiftly cooling
into another 
battalion of 
such hard—and brutal ought-tos 

quickening
fast to war now and already
marching onward—forward with fresh arrows for

the onslaughts—and quivers- 
full 
of bloody ardor for yet another 
one 
of yesterday's goddamn-doomed tomorrows.

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