the shadowed alcove entry
of a failed arcade is like
serrated darkness when
rooftop sheers the sky,
starless, before this
glassed prison of memory
the lowest murmur of a person
not forgotten or ignored
just faintly overlooked
woken in the daylight
by words through a keyhole
or pressure from a door
but for the night they are
unbothered, a scratch of charcoal,
or atoll, on a moth-eaten map
the marrow in the bones
of a failed arcade
aware that surrender
isn't amiss
Or I Give Myself Very Good Advice, But I Very Seldom Follow It. Echo lives in a basement apartment, walls softened with photos, posters and paintings--but only one of him, out of the way by the linen
Start with putting your ego on a longer leash; you can't let it go entirely--why write if not to tell yourself about yourself--but it mostly just gets in the way of getting anything done. Next, write.
The only mine I've ever known has been hard-fought, hard-won, all bloody knuckles and broken ribs, all set shoulders and subtle sneer-- won't take no for an answer, defiance the only way I know. It's