from 1-93 - another prose poem. sort of fitting for the weather we've been having here in the Pacific Northwest lately.
not much going on here today. i'm on a few days off, before more ovetime on the night shift. that needs no more comment than that.
SONG OF THE DEAD
nothing in the ice & snow but cold. no one visits these frozen outposts but the doctors of lunacy & adventurers seeking free shelter. & we think of ourselves as ancient gods waiting for admiration, when we are in fact nothing more than relics of an age that no longer exists. we are ghosts, shadows upon the tundra no one sees, lost to brilliance of northern lights.
the poetry and rambling thoughts of a working class poet
