Tuesday, March 16, 2010

burning storm

words rain down like bullets
producing breathing gaps
holes of naiveté

this is a burning storm
gathering its metallic rattle
in soda cans

21 century maracas
convoluted dance of chance
random cries at midnight
amplified by the microphones of the soul

the truck’s flat tires
are spinning moons
throbbing wounds
being recovered by sea salt

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