it’s dying. just like the cactus that pathetically sits on my wooden floor, a beautiful pot can’t massage the life or green back in. i’ve given up on it after spraying and hoping…
my can of insecticide didn’t do magic. didn’t do the trick. just like the opened and discarded book on the kitchen table or the mounds of empty cd jewel boxes, these things i thought would be the beautiful distraction i needed…
letting the ghost fade into the background edges of my life, you’re just another face now, just another time. like when i walked by him at the hotdog stand, his eyes looking right through me, i never looked back, never caught another glimpse of a man who let the bottle color his life, pour it’s distraction to his bottomless pit…
i’ve been chasing the muse and it seems to have eluded me, like moonbeams through my hand, like shooting star tails that draw incomplete lines to nowhere hoping to lure me to follow it’s sketchy path…
the day began with young woman slit skirt and carefree indian blouse and ends by tucking in an old soul between soft cool sheets and could have been thoughts…
