Kindra Austin cuts us with the knife of loss.
I’m running out of poetry; your Absence is a burglar of words and rhythm. You’re the one who’d always told me to write my heart out. Just write, baby girl. Tell me, how am I supposed to cope with the loss of my goddamned verses? Who am I, if not a writer?
I wandered way down cobblestone,
deep in fog exhaled from lungs.
Mourning mind preoccupied,
my flitting feet followed instinct—
landed me at Dimwit dive-bar,
I ended up supping a ginny Gin Rickey.
in the nook at the
billiards table, a beatnik boy-toy of
Nimoy stature floated me a
hawk-eye look; affixed a fag to
his bottom lip, and
I just knew he was the type who
Wuthering fucking Heights.
What comes next? I have an idea, but can’t seem to execute it. I’ve been staring at this piece of shit for…
View original post 169 more words