johnsu01 (johnsu01) wrote,


The sandman drifts belly-up
in broken prose punctuated
with stage diorama drums.

The strung-out crowd sings
with no rhythm. Here we go,
off to neighbor neighbor
land. Won't you be my fence

against the wall? Please, put
your wizened hands together
for the branded voiceover.
He'll like your tone,
if it's deep.

Our chances to do exactly this
might actually depend on
the density, the time we have
for nothing to be done at all---

Because the way to the laundry
is the way to the river
and the way to the dirt
is the way to blue,
resting assured.

Sitting by the entrance
was a way to be shallow.
Knowing, everything wrapped up
would go to someone else.
It was a powerful defense.

Tags: poem
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