Friday, August 1, 2008
To: Brandon (random)
i was walking my dog spot in the rain
did you know that the man who sells laksa is closed
use my back as you writing board
and then she sends me a email
it's over, i'm leaving , goodbye
i call her, i text, i sat outside her door
she said her earings did not match my shoes
do i need a better reason, pick from millions
of floating excuses that randomly exist
from the air to a crumpled up note in my pocket
and when i leaf through the photos of us
that are arranged by time and date
i can flip trough our affair like a flippy book
she knocks on my door as i start the fire
did you know that the man who sells laksa is opened?
From: The Proletarist Poetry Factory