Tuesday, April 16, 2013

The Collarbone Clock

Handle is a blindfold
farce synced up with hashtag
radio waves poured from the
ancient central telephone cable
a wired rig sinking into
our subconscious regret--
search again-without the
frozen oil spill this time--

it's found poetry
a payment for the injured
aircraft losing altitude in
the spring night sky
of the not so deep south
reflected in the garden patches

2d darkness
wood panel horror stares from
windows across the way
neither exist
neither existing

butcher the sentence
in the aftermath haze
dine on the dewy remains
slick with morning light

smell the sun up

feel the pulsing click and turn.

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