(UNTITLED) knowing one day that the tiles will fall and my feet will always sleep, i tip. past the growing vegetation and gawking silence of admiration into a realm where i have no hesitation to be the ruler. i take things as if they were dropped by someone important and i hide them behind white fences that rap around porches but the squirrels will find it someday but by then i'll have found it gotten away toward the sun that is too bright to get into but it is too cold to pretend that i could swim without the aid of a shipwreck of some sort, i can't explain the retorts from the madness in my head that one day will find itself behind curtains of no particular color. reverberations of the books that have fallen together into pieces of art that hasn't even begun to start.
Mike McGerry
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