We need a Celine/Miller/Kerouac/Bukowski/type for this time and place. I've chosen myself for the job. What did the man say? No guts no glory? So writing poems from the gut will do. And my star is rising...

Monday, February 07, 2005

antiseptic gleaming terror

the mall is
the symbol
and metaphor
for everything
nearly
but I can't breathe
there and
secretly gasp
for air
bright
electric light
killed the field
and
the stream
and definately
the
muse

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