Thursday, December 08, 2011

Random Acts of Poetry


Her psychiatrist sits
with hands folded
in the all-white room.

"For a lifetime or two,
a couple of my mad selves
wore a suffocating iron
mask of tranquility."

A cello player draws back his bow.



Compare your life to the script
until you stop crying,
until you change your mind.

bits of seed pollen waft
from your brain, on the wind.

One day these words will take root.



You lopped it off,
that intricate braid
rooted in the day we met.

Now you show a different face,
a silly moon under the bob,
a shopping-mall attractive


to paint a smile on.

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