looking thru the glass. and seeing nothing…
something’s swimming in my snifter that shouldn’t be. maybe part of a bug or yet another piece of myself i’ve been forced to swallow and now repeats in untimely fashion like when i want to forget the knife holes in my back. usually i ignore all leaking down my spine but it’s hard when all i want to really say goes whistling through. i’m sure if i had you alone you’d see i’ve crossed your name off from my list. a concise unshaking line that speaks of cold-blooded laces knotted to shoes walking on. the rich irony to be mocked as boy who conjures things he can’t see when quite clearly here you are holding conversation with a ghost. when next i greet you, and you, and you, i’ll glide untethered and true in the knowing a single shot took me out and into peace. until then i’ll knock back this booze and ignore the defineless particles which once i may have been but surely now no more.
listen to this poem
© Copyright Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
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