03 October 2012

tip of it

to the gut of my myth
roundabouts make strange compasses
steering the ship of my mind
around a concrete sea without
the illusion
in the desert of this city
left hand lane
indicator throbbing like a thin
alphabet a slow
two thirds full
the glass
on an empty table
if its inside out it's
outside in
Hebraic alterations
unstitching the language
we used we
concentrating on the magma
airborne ash and shattered rock
broken fire
I levitate
around the Greek root
as it pollinates through time into
the word that's on my tongue
the tip of it

1 comment:

Brian Miller said...

heck you had me at the first two lines...sold to the gut of my myth...and the roundabout...tight opening...ha...i wanna know the word on the top of your tongue...