Arda Collins
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At last, terror has arrived.
Next door, the house has gone up in flames.
A woman runs fro mthe burning wreck, her face smeared
with blood and ashes. She screams that her children are kidnapped.
It's truly exciting, and what more would anyone ask?
For a rare and beautiful egg to present itself in the grass?
For sex with the liquor store owner to progress into something
meaningful?
You don't know what I've done in front of the mirror.
I've pulled my shorts up high like a thong. I've walked back and forth
doing little kicks and making faces. I've stopped, I've stared.
I try to et my mind around the sight of myself. I make a face.
Of great seriousness. I imagine that I've just recieved
a large and upsetting piece of news. Then I look into my eyes.
Can I guess what I am thinking? Can I tell you what it is?
1 comment:
i'm so... with this conceptually. feels true.
but ideas aren't everything. i want it to overstate more or - on the other extreme - be more withholding. i wish the poet would overkillor overliven it.
overliven. not a word but should be.
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