i've been writing in color.



there are a couple of old folks standing on the side of the highway crying.
surrounded by long cars, blue hearts, and black clothes, they hold onto each other with a desperation of being so anchored to one another they would surely be cast off the spinning world if they let go. in avoidance of careening into lonely, suffocating space, they have dashed themselves each upon the rock that is the other.

/-/

the streetlight outside my hosue won't stay on. or off. it flares to yellow life, ignites white, then dies a cool blue death every thirty seconds.
perhaps it is my heart; imprisoned in an indecisive incandescent glass case. raised so high on my sleeve that it illuminates my footsteps.