Friday, December 16, 2011

Future of text, a future text.

I can feel an idea surfacing
surfacing through a body of text.
A body I text, a body I texted.
A paragraph I wrote in the back
of my throat.

Itchy, cant scratch.
Mentally detached.
Sing a haiku, a poem
for you, from me, from
him, anonymous kin.

Everyone shares one fountain.
Wealth and knowledge. Festive?

Its creative. To think.
Honey I shrunk my brain,
with pills.

I think I killed the kids?
In my stomach?
with words?
in the future?
I hate you?
No, your father?
I hate him?

I'm sorry?

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