by August 7, 2013 0 comments

We’re intricate wheels.


Pumping blackberry houseflies
through our veins.

We remember diminutive horses
too small to indenture,
wire-haired cats
with sulfur teeth
prowling our favorite paths to water.

We’ve sold
ourselves as souvenirs
at quasi-Medieval festivals.

We thought we recognized
the grim reaper’s robe and beard,
but, alas…


This is the same irony
that fueled
the great Westerns
of Newman and Brando.

This is the irony
of fate,
if you believe in that sort
of thing.

The irony that grinds
our perfectly healthy words
into illusions, thus, sprouting
our latest bouquets
of newly flowering myths.

editors note:

A circular koan: Tell me the sound of fate forming a myth making fate forming a myth making… – mh

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