Thursday, September 1, 2011

Prize Fight

Little water, they call it. It has properties and kick, remains in the head and soul upwards of two days. You have fought it and lost, won, came to a draw. Often and hard, you have judged the fight and thrown the punches, rang the bell and swept the trash when the world was empty. Silent as snow.

Music sounds different under that water, muted. Voices, too. And love, it suffers inwardly, unfamiliar with this kind of abuse. You recognize and retire into a brightness. Everything is concrete and random but important. Table, hat, kiss, touch, glass. Clear is the music and love lets go its suffering and you fight, ego strong.

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