Sunday, July 13, 2008


yr name reminds me of
a wooden box

it is a crate,
with planks nailed
one over the other

blue and red paint
sprayed letters
on the outside of
the crate are
bold but alien

the weight of the words
dense unwieldy words
the points of each letter
sharp to the touch
what kind of paint is this?

my hands do not bleed
when i lift the crate
but they do burn
with the softness of
my hands on
yr back

there is nothing
in the crate worth
buying selling trading

because the only value
the object has is
linked to the obscurity
of it remaining
inside the crate

the mystery of the object
is its own essence,
it is desire

my hands stop burning
but my blood gets
thinner, runs slower

thinner like the water
that runs from yr
11th story sink
when compared to

the ocean water
thick with salt
and slippery with algae

slower like driving behind
a meandering tourbus
not even knowing that
i've driven too far

i've driven too far
i've driven too far.


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