Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Coat of Arms

A finger sliced on cream-colored formica
while grape fruit leather is chewed in mournful bites.
Glass magazines. The paper bones of billionaires
fold over as grief becomes panic becomes
friends eating roast beef from each other's
mouths in a tent. Like it matters what you think
at dinner, at all. You lift a cup, you tip
a cup, you grow old, you whither. Watch what
you say. I mean it: watch your mouth move
in the mirror when you say what you say.

2 Comments:

Blogger VicoLetter said...

...awesome

6:14 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Great poem!

12:05 PM  

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