Saturday, September 25, 2010

Alien Blood

In transit and transition
between one door and the next,
combination or key lock,
we have not escaped the veldt,
emaciated prowling lions,
the frenzy of the watering hole —
and in an alien country,
where language has been deconstructed
into unrecognizable components,
intent baked by sun — when a bullet
is the irreversible solution,
steering back into before —

the man who ran from the TO bus
with a knife in his hand hugs sidewalk,
off his meds, off his life,
off the trail most of us imagine following.

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