Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Two Thousand Different Collisions--channeling my inner e. e. cummings



He slings mud with precision
Uses it as a mortar to fill any cracks he sees
To that end it's a noble gesture I suppose
Until he drops the bomb
And the earthquake hits

Right on time
Ten
Nine

dust emulsified
starts

to

(I can hear myself)

crumble

O.K. now it's finished
Now I'm just all my parts
Falling onto one another
Fricton
One collective thud but really
Two thousand different collisions
One collection of stones
black cloud
That I could throw back if I had arms

raindrop

raindrop

raindrop

My blanket of dust turned paste
A cushion now a device of imprisonment
And for just one second viable mud

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