Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Frost on Eyebrows

The condensation that collects on the roof of my van gathers on the lips of sovereignty until it falls onto the bags of bananas and chicken soup. Order, that tempting utopia our lesser ego strives for is an unattainable destination, not on the map, out of service, not recognized by our spiritual travel agent. So, the temptation to hoard wealth (hidden debt) in the form of expired parking tickets and the phone numbers of broken-hearted women slurring their address and Christmas list to the graying Santa Claus, these temptations are saturated with the tears of my rasping lungs. Kerouac's Ghost stays warm near the fire of bundled wax cardboard. It's Christmas and the bells ring loud at the steps of the grocery stores. I'm proud in my ice castle, building crystal ships to guide me into the holy land.

Swerving around Squirrels
The van mocks my broken pride
robin laughs in garbage nest


Anonymous said...

stop hiding behind cryptic vocabulary,and metaphors, the only one who is scared is you.

Anonymous said...

If you hide behind "anonymous" to talk about who's scared and who's not, you're the kind of hypocrite no one will ever remember when you're dead.

kennyfuckinpowers said...

The truth has no agenda

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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.