from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone
wire.
one flies
off.
then
another.
one is left,
then
it too
is gone.
my typewriter is
tombestone still.
and I am
reduced to bird
watching.
just thought I'd
let you
know,
fucker.
the phaomnneil pweor of the hmuan mnid.
aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at cmabrigde uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny
iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. the rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed
it wouthit porbelm. tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.
crazy, huh?
it's "coe-burn", damnit:: my poem using only names of Bruce's songs.
after the
rain, anything can happen. anything,
anytime, anywhere.
strange waters
trickle down, down to
the delta. arrows
of light shoot
across the whole night sky of
nicaragua.
deer dance round a
broken
mirror on the thirteenth
mountain.
prenons la mer
where red ships take off
in the distance. only to end up
shipwrecked
at the stable door of
celestial horses.
listen
for the laugh of someone you
used to love; it's
the last night of the
world
spent on a stolen land.
understanding nothing,
left wondering
where the lions are, you're
free to be.
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