prosepoem

I have to say that as much as my neighbor's wind chimes distract me from the traffic from the street in front of my house again appear like a situation comedy rerun on network television forget the drama, the daytime soap opera, the dreams that when you are in that state between falling awake and getting to sleep the incessant like the tumbling of the water over the rocks that no one can hear unless they are listening to nature and that is to trickle away speeches disguised as something beautiful when you are just full of anger and neglect and bitter, sour apples like the shape of your fake breasts like the reek of your mouth when you speak your lies. You are a series of noises and your feet should wear bells so that they can hear you coming before you approach, you should carry danger signs that warn of your toxicity. One day you will lie underneath a pile of dirt and the cover of the box still will not shut you up. Worms will frolic in your seepage. Until then you tell your lies, you spread your poison, you stick out your fingers and keep sparking. Take up your broom and sweep that crust from your brain. Sweep away your self- righteous nature and light a candle for Jesus already, and keep telling yourself that it is okay because I did it and I am never wrong. Oh if I could come up with a million words for you but I want to turn my head sideways and dump all thoughts of you in the shower drain, so that the apparition of your memory could dance with the vermin and crawling things underneath our city, until it spills out into the sea, so far away from land that even airplanes circling in distress won't give you a second glance.