on a bent bow,
i mimic poorly the sounds that pour from my friends
AM radio, on a flowered chair, one raided from the
dead depths of an ancestors splendid halls of collected
antiquity-an old oriental gong or the limbs of an old
slovak general hang like pinatas about the house where
we would sit as kids waiting for a semblance of candy to
fall out; michael, dressed like an orphan on the
day his supposed parents were to come claim him
would get anxious and pound the old skeleton with
whatever was near until we were swallowing dust,
probably the skin of his grandparents of great or greater,
and we would choke it out until we thought we could
taste our lungs-in that old cellar where michaels
grandparents kept their treasures i remember finding
an ancient globe that depicted what i know now to be
Pangaea, and that was the first time we knew me, him, and
everyone else were all somehow connected.
Last edited by rushmore at Aug 1, 2010,
^ this is true, your a very talented writer. Your words should affect the lives of people other then UGers...