His side

I retract the pen from the lamp

And remember when Czech named my stamp

And drunk on Absinth, refrained, asleep from camp

I call to American's lost, like bullets stings

Tiny concrete dents, carving God's hand under windows and trusses

And the whisky cramps come again

Time locks a gait, blocks, inside I damp

Boxes stacked five on top

A fan turned off atop plastic shells

A carpet messed FAR from church

Pillows fell, all and all its not hell its work

Shadows dance thru by blinds its true

A round cat lies on His side too blue

A carpet high on its lies and lies

Walls mismatched, in their work they spy

A cigarette of deserts do catch the fights

Slamming doors from tides of laborers at nine

Cars wake up and pull away at eight

I watch a film on a box so late

Sun, sun down there's no debate; I isolate

I am free to see, touch and smell the greats

Your voice yelling at me to tell my fate. Its sugary I-so-late.

I wish it to stop this lonely jail of hate

I can fall into pictures of cats doing nothing

I wish it stop, this lonely shame

I fall into pictures, sails and wait

Do not knock or open my gait.

11/18/11 8:37am