Wednesday, February 3, 2016


I am sitting at this noxious table amidst the
ribbons of foil and jello. We are otherwise
at a sensible place : toiling and not screaming
about something. In the center of the folder, you
have a picture of an Indian  -  the American kind,
if ever there was such a thing; though I don't think
there was. Talk about a contradiction. Talk about
a blamed dichotomy, a something that never could 
be. There is cold talk in the alley, and the street here
is lined with my words. A winsome blue jay is yelling,
and the snow has bent these evergreen bushes.
I guess I have managed to survive all that; my vehicles
are well parked along the curb, and closed, though, no,
not locked. I lock very little. I trust a lot. More important
is that fact that  -  against any and all rains  -  my windows
be closed. So, in a term of semblance, my Peace is at hand.
Achieved at last, these wires of cars and ideas run together
like those old slot-cars the kids used to have; running crazy
and fast, they'd stick to the track at all angles, only until, at
some very last moment, the centrifugal force of their spinning
a curve at speed would rip them away and they'd fly off
the track like a madman just finally set free once again.

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