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A Disjointed Way to Truth

Updated on February 8, 2013

A beautiful infection, this addiction,

a child I don’t whip

now to chase later. I

ride on a lemon smile

with a brain of sponge.


I watercolor people. I paint

my future with fog. I

color with White out, concealing

my soul, gloating in muck, not

knowing gold dust from diarrhea.


My arms rise with traces

of crimson, knife-edges of indigo.

I become a rainbow then

wash off or run in

clear rain. I rest between


rounds. I vow to quit.

But making a vow is

like changing a diaper. It

repairs the moment but doesn’t

provide a permanent fix. I


despise solitaire, but I play

it, so I hijack the

unnatural, this addiction I just

can’t kick, my addiction, my

darker, disjointed way to truth.

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