Monday, August 17, 2009


Legends spend autumn nights naked
bowled in wetness dreaming a fretful freedom
Pinching their lips on a stale slice of American pie
awaking hours before dawn hungry
sweat sopped in the crotch
Why don’t they tell us legends are born and reborn in muddy waters
drink until their eyes favor opals
tread roads alone -- dust/ash trailing behind them
(If legends knew their fathers like they knew their mothers perhaps they’d just be saviors)
G-d sees fit for their deeds to live longer than the gyre of forever
Legends follow the route etched in their palms
There is a metaphorical prison they’re running from
a broken iron fetter the ever-present reminder of cemented untruths and delayed deaths
Years after school teachers with the softest hands and the brightest eyes
will call their agoraphobia and mania
simply beautiful

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