Thursday, May 28, 2009


If I wake up, I think I am dying. While, if I continue to sleep, the random double beat of my heart morphs into a snow yetti or bottle collecting chinese lady with skin like freshly bleached curtains. But I do wake and I do feel like I am dying. Only not like a real death. More like somebody a lot like me is dead and I just haven't carried out the body yet. Its not like its even sad really. What is left at times will try to cry. A tear, like a pearl of glass posited in front of my eye, made ready for the spring loaded plunger of my cares, announced with a solitary tap of the silver-est of symphonic triangles held by Buggs Bunny himself. And a littlest star spins and pulses doppler like, quickly receding into history.

1 comment:

breanne! said...

i like it. kilgore was here.
you should write a book.
this writing reminds me of a part of a book i'd like reading.

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St. Augustine, Florida, United States
I spill ink ,it collects here.