Friday, August 20, 2010

Underlined In Red

Even my heart beats mistakes,
Though one might be fooled by its fakes.
Its hazardous drum couldn’t beat true
By accident. Barely a drum, more a few

Crumbled quiet knockings in my torso
Like drips, bits, blobs, or like crumbs.

A thrum rung crumb, empty lung and still-tongue sung
A brittle crumbeat.
So small it mocks its own large hunger.

But I live through its accents,
All of them wrong.
Shrug in the mire of nonsense
Glum dragged along.

And sing this drugged song

My résumé is fillable with two syllables:
Just one word, wholeness averred:
An iamb that I am:
A noun I take to town:


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