Thursday, September 12, 2013


While heat phantoms slow
Burn the left overs of God
On a grille of tar & concrete
An anonymous machine
Paints a white line down
The center of the highway
As a distraction amidst the
Great expanse of nothing
So / turning a bloodshot eye
Against the tedious glare
I watch the road dissolving
Up ahead into a message
Hung from a rusted chain
(a clean bed & a hot cup
of coffee would be nice)
Yet resign myself to the
Occasional current of sad
Inevitability & wonder at
The relevance of this



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