28 August 2006

maybe

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa thick, soupy mist
floating above
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa sun burnt,
heated street
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa peeling,
high beams reflect
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa pale white lines
off of
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa circles under eyes
the cloud
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa 2 a.m. driving home
that cannot
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa stay awake or
fly.

4 comments:

Stephen Imperato said...

i need to use BOTH hands to count the ways that this poem can be read. i need another set of eyes. and another brain would be nice. this is one of those poems that means nothing and everything at the same time. reading this poem is like trying to untangle an impossibly knotted yoyo string and then tangling it up on purpose just so you can untangle it again. neato!

ehammelshaver said...

very neato!

i love the pile of poems that come out of this. but most of all, i love the image of "the cloud that cannot fly."

lines like that make me so happy.

ehammelshaver said...

and p.s.

i'm so excited about pop-up poetry, it's not even funny.

Stephen Imperato said...

indeed, this pop-up poetry thing is most exciting.
hey, who remembers that show that used to be on vh1, pop-up video? i loved that show.