| The Moon is My Pillow |
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How does one ever feel so alone when they are lacking in individuality? This world? Overpopulated. Bomb shelters with bulging hinges. Locusts driving Hummers. Nuclear bombs. Hands glazed in filth. Littered highways. Wrappers better left under a heat lamp. My. Blood. Boils. The moon is my pillow on a fortunate night. People. Support. Success. The ones who struggle... So many squirming alone! Worms in a Styrofoam bucket of manure. The outdoorsman? Hunter? Fisherman? Not an environmentalist. Excessive. Indulgence. Waiting for a hook. Alas. The proverbial wet boot. The moon is my pillow on a fortunate night. The mass is at work. Not. On. Themselves. Those who work on themselves... Rarely. Work. I find time. Under. Rocks. Mattresses. A fallen leaf holds more beauty then one struggling to hold on. Others try to look it up. Time n. the measurement of duration, as by a clock. Page 683. After timbrel- n. a tambourine. Before time honored- adj. respected by reason of age. The longer I live the less I seem to respect. A loss. Losing. Self respect. The moon is my pillow on a fortunate night. People scurry. Hurry. Along. Chaotic ways not wanting to miss anything. Life. A. Backdrop. A legless blank canvas tries keeping up with crawling cockroaches. I. See. Them. A hummingbird's fatigued wings. Blurred. Frantic. Speed. A flower's pollen holds its breath. Innocent's beauty. Sneeze. Tears. The moon is my pillow on a fortunate night. The sand. My shoes. The ocean. My bath. The sun. My warmth. The sky. My blanket. The. Moon. Is. My. Pillow. On. A. Fortunate. Night. © Justin Saragueta, 2006 |