Saturday, July 15, 2006

{(read me)}

.trick.tick.trick.tock.

{(out loud)}

nosebleeds over the smell of coffee on a hot
saturday morning. the 9am alarmer.

bringing up the fastest;
on peaches and bananas
churned butter and fresh milk

or the stomach of curdled waves and grain

all the way from the americas.


*__*___*_____*______*

)pacing yourself(
for the unacceptable;

relax, child. don't run unless told so.

))the outcome((
for predeterminancy

.the.trick.at.last.

3 comments:

katy said...

please allow me to deny any intention for this poem. yes, any intention at all. it is simply not there. the poem is simply here.

the only thing that happened on purpouse was the bold-ing of the backwards parentheticals.

B Boutwell said...

I think...I like it. ;)

Cecilia said...

You're allowed to do anything you want, K. Everything with you always comes out as a work of art. Truly.