Tuesday, March 02, 2010

She only wrote the last one to share it
there was no therapy in it
no unresolved inner conflict
outer conflict
stellar conflict
she has the luxury of words
hardly the torment
she makes whispers blast like shot guns
she makes stanzas loom like high speed
her plot devices like torn crumpled steel
bending over a mutilated cutlass grill
she's a literary muscle car
in high gear
with the windshield
painted over black

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