02 December 2011


Cotch 12/2

How many months could I make it
hidden – in the mountains of New Mexico

Where are the legs of Father Time ?
I have a tire iron – wish to hobble everyone
who has a clock

Here is a space
where my arms wrap around myself
as if they always could

A space where the conversation
in my head – is rich and fine-tuned to hum

When does the gear break the block
placed in the wheels of the sun chariot

Forcibly making dawn of my night – breaking
my attempt at vanishing without dying

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