Thursday, April 21, 2016


Let the masked crusader through,
he is on his way to something; only
he will do. This permanent vacation
has turned to a permanent box, and
the headlines all screech of the ending.
Animal instincts sometimes seem the
best. I sense something about you  - 
 that sniped smell in the air  -   lustful 
and brooding, easy and fair. On the 
heights, the leafy trees are again 
ready for growing. I really ought
to live in a tent for the Summer.
Once I had proverbial dreams  -  they
came and they went like the blinding
blood of all those hot-wired days. I
would throw knives into those trees,
and those knife-blades would stick, 
clean, deep, into the bark in all
those deep ways.

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