Tuesday, August 18, 2009


Not the hip Northwest but instead the world ending, us locked inside. Words like the long-dead Seattle icons. The unshaven, raspy voiced. Their ends more personal, mainlining verse-chorus-verse. Now here’s the world’s feedback, knocking you on your rear, sound equipment igniting in fireballs. We sit inside: shadows, shades drawn, half-awake string of Christmas lights. Desperate to hold on. The world’s end comes but we don’t know how. You pass me a list of all the things you never got to do. Poetic, I say, if there were a tomorrow. You take it back, clutch it to your chest. I remember item 47—surf the eye of a hurricane. I don’t cry. Those tears dried long ago.

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