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Movements in automatic writing
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| I, hemeroging the color of rust Or the bald pupil of an eye. I accelerate Down the thumbs of you half cut onion Acceptance is what makes the heart beat, it is what peels out from the still black of a mind It is great, like the sword of a 1,000 year old god of who stand upon hills displaying nothing. I, his unquestioning disciple follow him like I follow golden ears of corn the toppling hills, I show no red inflamation drawn out from the hem of my green skirt. absent, I am black and white, a mild vibration Like a mother begging upon knees instead of two feet. I shall come back in your broad day movements in automatic writing © 2000 Tyurina Allen |
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Written By: Tyurina Allen
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E-mail:jesjorge@sendit.nodak.edu
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Submitted: March 15, 2000
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