above all, between the organ
notes and the perfect-centered
pitches that lie between us
those perfectly measured lines
separating the coming and
going of the freeway--the far
and the near, but much less
near. kamikaze waterfalls
pouring, jumping, begging to
be let go from those fragile
angry tear ducts that claim
residence on my face. my b
ody is a cage, followed by
the dramatic the most drama
tic organ chords you could think
up for yourself or for anyone.
it's a cage, and i fight myself
with the words i hide and
suddenly let go--as if living
in an age could improve the
cage. does my mind actually
hold the key? i fight, but i
mostly give up. i can't find the
key but all i wish is that you'd
set my spirit free.
if you wanted a good example of bad poetry... well there it is. excuse me while i go kick myself in the face for being a freaking moron.
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