Sense Of Self

I was first awakened, by a delivery, my ashen frame, brought along /a little cold blue hell, admonished,/ turned over in the dawn, /in the middle of a fight/, roughhouse style ,with no a answer. just a baby’s stumble. /Eager for an answer, I scanned random aircraft ,/in much the same manner/ I listened once for train whistles./ Without a working memory,/ no working clock,/ I dressed in a shroud, sat upright,/brought my focus to a pile of cans./ In the blue shroud I was wrapped in, joyous/I hit the pavement:/I let others carry my movement’s burden ,/in a house of secret and violation. /Each movement, childlike, /known to a few who, in time, sweated /as desperate culprits…they owed me…

1 Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s