zafusy

Some days I’m not in the mood
for my raincoat. The hobble out
to the woodshed I’ve become.
Token of a myopic mysticism,
entranced by cinderblocks and
lipstick scrawled in Sanskrit
forging bonds of gooey clay.
Graffiti on the walls of the
inscrutable. Every now and
when I see a cartoon laugh of
jackals haunting an echo of old
shoes. A stubborn collage of
noises unmeant to turn a head
to think. To dally in a cocoon
of circles assured of dying
light of fires in the holes that
bring the mountains round
as well.

Philip Byron Oakes

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