words through barsmoke
Monday, December 16, 2002
Sunday, December 08, 2002
[12/8/2002 7:41:12 PM | swheeler] --IMPOSTERIAL POSES --
[12/8/2002 7:39:22 PM | swheeler] i asked a man
[12/8/2002 7:38:29 PM | swheeler] when they opened,
[12/8/2002 7:35:53 PM | swheeler] he said he only just started
[12/8/2002 7:29:11 PM | swheeler] sleeping there.
spw
--Downtown Arcade --
a mustached lady
with her red-tipped blind stick
is kicked
by the dome haired asian kid
so heavy in her pink moon boots.
spw
the crinkle as he walked, so many keychains and baubles attached, and wore always a helmet with a headlight for both safety and perhaps a metaphorical illumination.
LOSING TRACK OF EXPERIENCES
She dropped into my mental dust heap, swept up like so many spent cigarettes, soon after we'd exhausted the possibilities afforded to those who pass their days in the interior spaces of frameless mattresses and blanketed curtained windows. She was not so much a thing in my life, but a time, not a time but an instance, insisted upon for the sake of a tiresome sexual liberty. I should be accused of time theft, but for lack of evidence.
AN OUTSIDE OF A BRITISH PUB SONNET
-- hALFEN sTANCE --
half between a lean and a stumble
an inviting and familiar wall lept out,
causing a sigh, a long almost vomit drool, a crumble
that inward left behind a wimpetic shout.
brick headed with regret and empty,
keeping always a sway for admission,
duplicitous in his own regard, and he
drunk in dreams, rich in decision.
yet rockstar famous in parking, leastwise,
all else would be lost to leaisure,
provocatively beer weary of what conversation buys,
of the filthy tongue he pimps out for pleasure.
if all of the vomit were dollars
and singing decipharable from hollers.
spw. abab cdcd efef gg
