Shall I compare thee?

"Poetry is the art of economy of words," she says.

I used to say that.
Nearly verbatim.
And an artful economy it was...until the crash.
Now my poetic musings consist mostly of lines akin to:
"Well that's just fucking perfect"
"You've got to be fucking kidding me"
and
"Mother fuck!"

Sonnets of the Portuguese, my friends.
Sonnets of the Portu-fucking-guese.

North by North-Cotton

Just slightly out of phase.
I can almost touch, almost hear, almost interact...
just not quite.

It's like every atom in my body, every synapse in my brain is propelling me toward something that's not there. The compass points north, south, east, and west and I'm supposed to head yellow.

I think I'm supposed to be here, but here is not supposed to have me.

I've had this feeling before. When I was standing on the edge of life this is what I saw. But I'm still shaking from traumatic succession of discovery, entrance, settlement, then eviction.

(it's funny that you're reading this...people aren't supposed to be coming here anymore...go see Kirk...he's far more exciting)

Parallel plans:
identical in form and flow
same cast of miscreants
same tragic hero.
Two violently opposing intentions.

I think I managed to foil them both.
But I can't seem to shake the feeling that door #3 is a broom closet.
(call me if you need some sweeping)

you fickle notes again
you've robbed me of my sleep
dragged me from my bed to watch the colors in the sky.

**Cobwebs**

(on me AND my blog)