reverwriter's profile

Out the side windows, specks of light come in streaks. Otherwise it’s all dark, raven black. Glances out the head car show only the last light hanging above the big lake. I’m in conversation with Bob Dylan as he talks with Archibald McLeish. They may both be unaware of my presence. On the train, boys talk to girls and girls pretend to ignore boys, all of them giddy for a late July night on Rush Street. It cannot be said often enough the strangeness of our world, all things unknown surrounding...

i see the heads of the headless men, caught in a box and impaled from the right, or possibly the left, but undulating, swirling about under heavy hands, grieving and streaming and undulating with time, straining for a view above the boards, faced off, yet again, against the headless enemy.

fires burn the southwest silk turns to burlap gold to stone lovers quarrel and the turning souls cry from the dead

held in weightlessness this velvet abyss touches with stone silence liquid warmth a pin drops in the mind's ear pebble in a pond a fraction of light a wave forms to hold and carry the rhythm gently it lifts rolls its languid extremities around to embrace softly seductively up back and sides losing itself in tangled hair blanketed from winter kissing the crook of my neck she pulls herself near

heated and sweating as if having run ten miles or two hours red-splotched and aching and now with all doors coming off hinges me breathless and in doubt post cerebral ill equipped investments being made with no invitation of self nausea resolute defiance for the trade without will, when did this begin? and to whom do i owe the pleasure the pleasure, in this ancient place all things undone and air only creeping like soft horror slowly revealed and to whose appeal? only vaguely occassionally co...