Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
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We lie all night in the concrete prairie.
Bus stop fires among winking eyes.
Then drive on down to the cemetery.
Gun shot riots ash shaking thighs.

Our home is Mexico.
Our home is nowhere.
Where the Kentucky grass grows,
through your dark red hair.

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What am I up to nowadays? Nothing much.

I've been writing some stuff with sound in mind as of late. I've gotten to the point where I feel like my writing needs to be read aloud or performed. The last short poem here is an a cappella jingle sung to something that resembles a traditional American folk tune. I think I'm subconsciously summoning the old bards' ballads from the days of yore.

New place, same cat,
same face, red hat.
That is all.