David Thornbrugh



The more I dream about nothing,

the more nothing becomes a dream.

At ten thousand feet the ripcord comes off in my hand.

The police chief turns himself inside out

and lies down on the murder victimís yellow outline.

Hypodermic needles march for the end of drugs.

Ants crawl the peony of my brain.

Oysters make peace with pearls.

Outlaw bikers weep over stuffed animals.

Every time I pat myself on the back

I stab a stranger.

City hall revolves in the asphalt corsage where

mothers of murderers recount their kisses.

Pigeons poke at cigarette butts

scattered at the foot of the cross.

Neon sizzles in the snake charmersí palm.

Old buildings arch their eyebrows

at the beggars stuck in their doorway gums.

Clean white sheets enfold me

like the crisp wings of fortune cookies,

but when I unfold my future,

the little ballot of whimsy is blank.


Copyright © 2002 David Thornbrugh.  All Rights Reserved.

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