Stop-
drop your stained eyes,
ears strained, stayed
to a faint whisper
hissing softer, shifting swifter.
Sift it smaller,
smaller,
stop.
Hold your breath and
dive down
digging,
ripping,
tearing.
Stop.
Pull it out carefully.
Cradle it in your hand.
Let the wind batter it's sides.
Watch as the stories topple to sentences,
crumble to words,
flake in your fingers
lingering only as an awkward thought
rocking back and forth
alone,
cold and folded.
Hold it close
mold it between your sweaty palms
roll it's edges dull,
wedge it in your closed fist
and wait
till it's full weight is felt
melting through your fingers,
dripping through it's burning cage,
dropping, pouring on the page,
stopping only
when the last of the mashed lead letters
etch the end of a wrecked echo
banging inside the six sides
of your Dixon Ticonderoga.
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4 comments:
you have always had a scary facination with Dixon Ticonderogas........but they are the best pencils out there
Hi Jake. Call me.
can you please write another poem?.......thanks
Hey Jake:
Did the picture you took of our family at the beach ever turn out? If so, could you email me a copy?
Thanks
Mark
PS: I second Tommy. Write some more!
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