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Literature
tomorrow
If I were a psychic I would tell you
your blazing future, strewn across the
pavement in black and white,
a fire scorching my pages, I
mark up with red and blue,
your violet future
sulfur-scented
braided in the marks on your palm
the twist in the turnpike
you, running out the asphalt
to fall into the horizon
The lifemap splice
tailing off to question marks
and you would ask why
but I would burn out the ink
spill the flame
toss it into the wastebasket, watch the fire
drown the writing, the light - spots against
the black, the shuddering of the
far-flung travel into
your dreams,
blown out.
I would do it a hundred times.
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