corpusvile

I am slowly moving from my misanthropic nature. Stories move me like tectonic plates. Tonight I went to the heart of where the last artist lives, I spoke as if knowing though we've never met nor have we ever shook hands before this. I spoke to a man who spent his first real night in Brooklyn after moving from smalltown PA. What are your motivations, sir? Kids are tagging the streets. We watched the moon from a warehouse rooftop. I spoke about our political environment, and you spoke to me about your geological ancestry. The last true starving artist lives in the broken down factories, where we still swing on swings in our mid 20's in enclosur

When we fall to the ground Do we make a sound? When wind passes through These long, tenacious tendrils Can you hear my yearning? The record of time Of rings on my fingertips Reveals my history Of solitude. My bones are creaking, seeking Some sort of honest-to-god Conclusion. An oak can ache And during the fall it can bleed vermilion But not for anyone else.

Embedded deep Attached into the tan earth That is my tiny strong body Is the umbilical cord Eternally linking me to the cavernous, dark Damnation of your sin.