Sunday, April 15, 2007


The house is empty,
door gaping,
he sits and watches.

The screen surrounds him,
he becomes molecules of snow
where transmissions flicker,
run along his fingers,
through hair, over cheeks.

Like a shadow tattoo
commercials for Warehouse specials,
family service announcements
about depression, and movie
of the week frame
and construct him.

He's a mini series of couch potato
seeding murder, torture, rape,
the cult cool of 45 magnum,
collating ideas for future events
from minds far more ingenious than his.


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