Here -
Where...Sunday morning dead mans clutter waits for eager hands..
Where...open spaces become dog bound and burnt by fogged spite..
Where...anonymous kiosk cards are pierced carelessly on stolen spike rod..
Where...skin is scissored..
Where...tacky metal emblems cling to half shredded, sprayed walls of distant commerce..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
( Formerly published: Stretched Bone#4, 2-10-22 )
