by Ryan Jesena
Wednesday, January 16, 2002
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you dream in a room,
with an irritated furnace
churning out gospels left and right;
when suddenly the television stops
and sets its iron stare
right between your eyes,
plotting its hostile takeover
like a mad mobster.
and you stare back at first,
refusing to flinch; but your tears
begin to fall faster than gravity
could hold its breath. the sign,
breaking at its seams,
is flickering outside,
and the sirens passed by
right into your ears
like anxious atoms
or angry sardines;
then, in a flash the coffee was cold,
and the morning was silent
(not even a cough).
the fusion began, when the towers
crumbled like sandcastles... and
the plastic figurines began jumping
out the windows without their parachutes.
the clicker refused to work,
but the television, unforgiving,
kept is gnawing gaze at you;
and you could not get away,
even if you closed your eyes.
the mosquitoes slowly drew closer
into the light, but they were far
too weary to suck the life out of you,
so they land on your skin, and melt
the planes refused to fly,
the sirens have lost heir voices,
the children have stopped to laugh,
the men have learned to cry,
and the dust never settled...
and for a moment it was the quietest day
one can remember.
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|Reviewed by Gregory Sonn (Reader)
|Very good write. Graphic as it needs to be!
I have written much on this subject. I lost 9 friends in that quiet day. Gregg. Read my Vaporized if you like you will see what I mean. Thanks.