Saturday, September 29, 2007

When the President talks to God

The Calendar Hung Itself

I kissed a girl with a broken jaw that her father gave to her, she had eyes bright enough to burn me, they reminded me of yours. And in a story told she was a little girl in a red-rouge, sun-bruised field and there were rows of ripe tomatoes where a secret was concealed.
And it rose like thunder, clapped under our hands.
And it stretched for centuries to a diary entry's end...

Well the clock's heart it hangs inside its open chest with hands
stretched towards the calendar hanging itself.