Miles Runs the Voodoo Down

my scribble cannot keep with the electric current cascading past my pupil.
& so it is scattered among the storm— trapped within greater cornea.
the pen quakes against paper cracking faults in still page.
the smell of ink turns my stomach like a shot of cheap brandy.
miles runs the voodoo down with brass & chaotic rhythm;
drums shattering my concentration into shards of glass over the floor.

cannot step anywhere.
stuck here
to page
to pen
‘til proper route mapped.

a sax will strand you inside a moment.
make you forget time.
what you were running from.
where you were racing to.
who you were looking for.
your growling stomach.

but never love,
nor need to rise.

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Categories: Photography, Poetry, UncategorizedTags: , , , , , , , , , ,

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