Gypsy trash

I’m one of the ones
They came in from the road

This fire burns
on invisible ink

A slow
quiet panic
translates
as blinking lights . .

Words that no longer mean—
words used the way they don’t seem—

Who lost their face
in the dark
casting shadows
lit up by the fire
burns on invisible ink—

Who went out of the way
to let go
even though
there was no undoing
our inheritance—

A steady drumbeat swings—

Who looked down the well—
who fell—
small droplets cling
to a magnifying glass

No,
no, that
wasn’t it

Who dries up and hangs from the sun—

Who spoke in moths—

Who picks up the symbols
and shuffles them
into little boxes of misunderstanding—

Who left behind
Durga’s in the sand—

Who could no longer wait
at the bus stop speakerbox
disconnect neon highlighter

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33 thoughts on “Gypsy trash

  1. genegryniewicz

    There is a deliberate arbitrariness to the piece that distracts from it though it does not detract from it … it enables you, instead, to biild upon it ,- restructure.it internally – unexpectedly -pddly appealingly.

    Reply
  2. nanancay

    This one so far is one of my favourites. Your voice is like modern art, it’s shaped like it means something different but then you put all the pieces together and it just becomes this work of art.

    I feel bad for gypsies.

    Reply
  3. Kristen

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    Thanks.

    Reply
  4. Pingback: Origins (for Daniel) | Consciousness creates reality

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