Tuesday, March 06, 2007


The collage moved back and forth over the window, assembling pieces of light, butterflies, and people's faces into a deadly weapon. When artists wandered through the neighborhood, they expected to be safe, except for bridges. They ached for painters and poets to jump off them, but they managed to resist most of the time. When the collage shot their canvases and exploded their notebooks, the artists didn't know what to do. The careful examinations of images and words they'd assembled from their mind, like builders of exquisite mansions, were now nothing more than shreds. They picked up the bits of their lives and ran behind the bushes. Each one of them tried to put together what had been ripped apart, but they only found an incomplete mosaic, disconnected pictures and letters, much like the world.


Blogger Bob said...

Hey, Don...

came across your blog via SAWBUCK via Otoliths...

wondering if i could use poems (i know they're drafts or that's what it says) from here for THE COUNTDOWN, an internet podcast i host for MiPoRadio


if you're game, are you able to record your poems? i was interested in this one for my next episode, which is in production now...

let me know!

9:08 AM  
Blogger Don said...

I'd love to do it. I'll get my IT savy brother to help me record it. When is the due date? What poems?

11:52 AM  

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