Thursday, March 27, 2014


Fire Drill

Time spent, just the two of us on the bathroom
after everyone else had exited with all
the aplomb of bagpipes exhaling one
last, droning breath, (not to mention the piercing

klaxon bray that drilled burr holes in our heads
until the school secretary switched

it off), was pastoral.   Tile and water
trickling from the balky flush valve of a

no nonsense urinal not unlike the
nothingness of a Zen garden tended by

prostrate monks, our heads wreathed by tonsures of
silence, the sand and stone behind the wall

of your skull in eternal disarray
under the rake of a frenzied god, this

capricious deity that frog marched you onto
the bus each morning, anointed with Haldol,
appointed in labeled state issue raiment,

his will be done until the final bray of the

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