Wednesday, February 24, 2016

A SHOW ABOUT NOTHING

Huge and oblong, city
blocks built of fog and filthy
cold vapor—stretch- 

out before your body's 
tottering gait,
confounding the repeated 

attempts 
its stubborn feet keep 
making, to get 

its hands in 
possession of pen 
and paper,

or to stick
its dumb face 
in front of a screen somewhere.

But when at
last, its legs succeed 
in the latter 

endeavor, some terrible 
passion—gathering, so much
like the blurry 

weather, behind its wet 
eyes—can sense 
the keys 

of a frail home 
computer 
craving to shrink 

away and recede, under-
neath 
each obscure and dangling 

finger, the nearer and 
nearer it comes—
to putting 

pressure upon
those little black 
squares which might

be most representative—
of what the 
truth 

of its  
own, personal
experience out there—really was.

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