like little moths

you got me mendin’ a half conscious passion
tongue dry from licking dirt
skin caught scrapes and two semi-new-bruise
brain scheming scenes that were torn scores ago

sip a little saucer of tea which morning has seeped
feigning dusk before the day wore down

.I was still in that wood chair wondering why my brew turned cool.

Martha, I think she called herself
one morning when she awoke due to an undignified siren call
which why must we call the sound of an ambulance a siren- such songs don’t make me want to jump in
I meant Martha, to jump in.


And, who said it was an ambulance?
Why would injury be the seducer?
Perhaps a blue bird?
No? Done before. I think as a collective mind we’ve forgotten that metaphor.

Have you ever heard the story old man who was a terrible wizard? He traveled across the land in scraps of cloths in the company of a filthily old dog. In his good days, this wizard could find a four leaf clover and on his bad, he could barely find the sky. Sadly this man never had an average day. For perhaps if he did, that staff he held would do more then steady his gait.
It never occurred to him to have an average day.


~ by ambur on November 7, 2011.

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