By Patrick Wigington
Ten thirty nine exit signs open lines of the sword divine. Overhead in my bed I see the dead—what they said, broken verse of a token’s curse, shadows in the meadows where all things sleep. Deep heaps that feign the pain of rain gone insane. Do you know what you are? Into lost pots commanding cops crop the tops of soda pops and listen to bebop on the top spot in an abandoned parking lot. Now the sounds turn around look back down towards the ground where things abound around a pole of indecent thought. The tree of life brought you strife you took your wife through the knife, a silly song symposium. Thirteen Thirteen, the clock click clacks on broken backs winding sacks on tattered rats chasing cats through cans of beans. Look at me, look at me. We bathed in the sea, fossils that still breathe. A cat looks up at me, singing songs of forgotten things. One, two, three.