Friday, October 13, 2006


To trip along the golden lash
of tongues,
more robust than clever,
leaves disheveled wreckage
clotting in my veins.
Eggplant bruises
across wounded flesh
of my forefathers.

These adversaries frame all reputation
in backward reflections
- time run amuck,
wrapping impure enigmas
within their frustrating decapitated majesty.
To dance on cracks
and jam or fall,
breaking bones of contention
upon my woozy brain
at three a.m.

I reel from the pungent smack
- reality deftly proclaiming,
‘Here me, oh fool!
You are undone –
T’was all for not,
and not yet begun
but at last
thy face is wiped clean
of superiorities –
a slate in turn,
thrust upon the world
to transcribe...
You have found yourself.’

@Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).


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