Sunday, March 6, 2011

Predictible Orbits


Anywhere but here, and since that day seemed so long ago, strange that now it wasn't. And when she felt so radiant, like the sun had blistered away all the layers of skin and left her bare and exposed, secretly hidden away in the dusty rafters of childhood knowledge; many days had passed wasted, unheeded. Life, like an art film replayed in fast forward motion, like the visions that come at life's end, we imagine. Flickering in the dark, sitting alone in the theater; sitting for review.
Thoughts mumble low now, no longer shouting down one another for limelight, accustomed to being disregarded, they politely wait their turns. Assimilated, subservient.
Pain becomes part of the limbic landscape inserting itself here and there like scrubby cacti succulent and bristly.
Houses of doors slam shut screen doors sifting air and memories and breathy whispers and silky tongues bring discontent to orgasm, and it comes unexpectedly in waves of greens.

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