Brain In Distress

Vintage Words


We run around in them as if 

it were a map. We run everywhere
with our pens waving and an 

occasional quill.
No one stops us. Editors want 

to meet us, but we can not stop running
searching for the perfect zero.
We tried taking geometry
but they wanted us to matriculate
to physics and we did not
have the math.
We write and run in orb-like pathways, 

burning rubber like teenagers squealing
tires, ending up where we began.

Innocence is our code word, beauty 

our motto, our love is strange and blue, 

but we keep lots of it in our pockets, 

satchels, manilla envelopes, scribbled

on pits of found paper or rewritten

on your best sleeve.


Love us for our dedication to the circular.

Belive in us for the motion of our lives.
We deal in the hard capital of words.
Occasionally, we spin the chambers

of both drawn and aimed colts, aim

and shoot you with similes, but mostly,

like twin handled sidearms, we keep them

holstered riding lpe and easy

at both hips.
Most people do not understand us. Try
as we would, we are unable to stop the orbit
of our days. We fail to meet the minds
of our readers, too engaged in whirling ideas,
obsessed by letters that have no space to 
begon or end. Basically, we bear the burden
of sojourning, too busy getting around.





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