Sunday, April 15, 2012

Blip Journal; the progress of a NYC writer.

Odilia Rivera Santos

Sparks fly.
Stars collide
in front of your eyes and
the earth slips from its axis.
The head lies still on a pillow,
wanting aloneness,
to be abandoned for the day
and for you to go about your business.
Words get lost
like unaccompanied children
in a mall;
 languages whisked together fly out the mouth in gentle noise,
clumsy and indecipherable and
no company is too much company.
The veins around eyes throb in an
unpleasant rhythm too
strong a beat for rest or action.
a migraine is another
thing altogether.

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