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Thursday, October 29, 2009

today Medusa's kitchen published the following


The moon is unsteady, trusting its light

To the stars it cowers behind clouds

Not allowing beams or dreams

To release themselves from its foggy

Journey. The voice is gone.

From the jungle floor we are able

To see those stars with proper names.

We do not greet them nor they us.

From here they seem cold. Distance

Is such a detatched maiden, full of thought

That have nothing to do with our petty concerns.

Closer, a night bird tells the darkness

Another secret, crazing the place where we sleep

With lines of sound. Fear begins to rise from

Its shadowy rooms, tells us we should be afraid,

Of what we have no idea. Just be afraid

Comes the message. Halloween arranging

Its crested headpiece in orange and yellow,

Glaucous whites and using the wind as voice,

Begins the seasons tales. We have heard them

All before and we have never heard them.

“Wait for the moon to return.”, someone whispers.

“She will be round and huge and full." We will be able

To see everything the night conceals clearly.

Perhaps this is a good idea. Things fly quickly

Just above our heads. We smell the cinnamon of

Autumn rising to the top of the night.

Someone calls our names.

We never recognize the voice.


Bright orange CALTRANS

Trash bags piled on the side

Of the freeway: Seansonal garbage.

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