“Take me out … to the black; tell ’em I ain’t coming back.”
—You know who sang it – 2002
“Once, in flight school, I was laconic.”
I’m no longer in flight school.
I speak with strangers in whispery chirps,
breaking words into nonexistent syllables:
H e low st rain ger s d ream ing bot tel roc ket s
Weird, soft wisps of bird-like thoughts
coming out my mouth in all lower case:
light is a softly scream sliver once tasted.
High and above the head, like circling halos
letters as sounds, not quite recognizable.
The tonally laconic double-tap of a pensive priest
afoul the empty building windows, speaking in O’s.
Orchestrated glass cracks and whitewashed tag coverages
matte painted on a facade of ginger candy wrappers.
I sully my truest thoughts with these florid words.
K. Shawn Edgar | Half-Tone | Goth Newt | Layabout