July 19, 2013

This world is a dream and
words are the cold winter
snow or the beckoning greenery
leading to the Hudson River, burning
inside your skin until you curse
its arbitrary existence. We
are all related in that way.

Skin traps me
as much as my mind
already has. Through worn
lenses I see shapeless
souls comfortable in
nothingness. How I
wish to be a starfish in
the night. But starfish and
skin and trapped are
words and words are killers
of a dingy nirvana. I label
you, therefore I make you.

I think, happiness is a mermaid
at the bottom of the ocean and I
dress so that the fish will
see me as one of them.  I
will dance in a majestic gold
fish palace inside my glass fish
bowl well after my legs have fallen
off. I will feel the ecstasy
of an after-life far from the grasp
of fleshy hands and I will
chase a gold haired woman.  She
is one for the books and she
will never leave. She
is a goddess of otherworldly
affairs. She does not
have a mouth.


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