Wednesday, March 7, 2007


A bottle hidden from everyone’s eyes
and my own solitude disconcerting,
butchering me into inedible pieces.
I always sit in the kitchen –
what’s the difference where—
Moscow, New York
swallowing the sour liquid
until the erect stork
called anxiety
breaks its skinny legs
and crumbles inside me
dissolves in the drink
What platitude!
I think as I recall my life
Hard core tragedy and softcore porn.
Daisies adorn the windowsill
As my head lowers
and my brains spill.

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