Thursday, June 05, 2008

#171 The Scars of Memory


Every time there’s
even the slightest
scent of censure in
the wind, winter
emigrates. Reincarnates
itself as a wandering
Mariachi carrying only
an icy cold pitcher of
vermillion in its guitar
case. In stark contrast
the rest of us go
stereotypically retro
& relive the 1920s,
not sure how we got
there or why we’ve
ended up channeling
Shakespeare in some
hell-drenched backporch
reliquary of the mind.

No comments: