Thursday, September 15, 2005

46. O The Crescent Flows Muddy Red

by L. Ward Abel

O the crescent flows muddy red
A bend of arterial dimensions

Full to rim and over-
Filled with sins of fathers

Blowing hard without charts now
Improvised in the tradition

Of nontradition. Stiff
In a median overgrown, afloat

With other stiffs, rotting
Without turning to dust - yeah

The tide is dust anyway
Risen to the sky, wet and dry

You can blame no one
You can blame me

hellicane category: local color

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

One word (FREAK)