This is writing that doesn't fit into any particular category. It's not prose and it's not quite poetry. It's not quite sane but it's something healthy. Not all of us have it figured out. I sure as hell don't. It's a series of locutions on madness and locura.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Vuvuzela

I can't make it
These starving ghosts, no I can't shake it
They hound me
Knees breaking
Cardboard pill cups and plexiglass havens
Linoleum floors and flourescent hum of locusts
Names years ago scratched into days-old paint
A stale draft silencing any whispers of reproach
The muting din
The deafening silence
Dominion
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