Thursday, November 26, 2009


Words go out like a candle flame in a breeze,
Never failing to amaze me until the moment I get bored.
I think of all the lights that I’ve adored but I’m not like,
Whether Nasty Dylan or Saint Joan Baez
Or lustful Joni Mitchell or musty Neil Young,
And it makes me feel helplessly dark
And small and imprecise
Like I’m lost and out of control in the faraway
Of some daybreak horizon I’ve never seen
Or on one of those streaked gray highways
Out of a dreadful dream where it’s endlessly
Sticky and clammy and black-devilled night
And there’s no one here but me until the resurrection.

Created on 11/21/2009 9:28 PM

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Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)