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The Question

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  • William Burns
    The Question This pen blown by the wind Dances the virgin page Inky traces upon the face of the fresh fallen snow This pen Moving of its own volition Not
    Message 1 of 2 , Dec 12, 2007
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      The Question

      This pen
      blown by the wind
      Dances the virgin page
      Inky traces upon the face
      of the fresh fallen snow

      This pen
      Moving of its own volition
      Not unlike on of those
      computer animations
      Just the slightest arc
      spark
      Where the nib bites the paper

      This pen . . .
      Not unlike a silent
      silver dust devil
      dancing a dervish

      Who has taught it this dance?
      Who has taught this page
      this thin paper page
      to hold
      Against all distraction
      to hold
      Against all strife
      to hold till breaking
      or burning
      or rain . .
      To hold till Death do us . . .

      Silent at last
      The pen at rest
      In the alabaster arms
      of the snowy page
    • William Burns
      Trash and Treasure She is cyan sky dreaming Her mother Trim and lithe Is pinning the most exquisitely white sheets On the clothes line He is moving through the
      Message 2 of 2 , Dec 12, 2007
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        Trash and Treasure

        She is cyan sky dreaming
        Her mother
        Trim and lithe
        Is pinning the most exquisitely white sheets
        On the clothes line

        He is moving through the ‘morning sector’
        And something is different
        Something has changed
        And he doesn’t like it

        And her mom is singing . . .
        Oh God what a beautiful sound
        This must be a dream
        But if it is
        Then let her dream

        He jumps at an echo
        His eyes quick
        Scanning for the source of the disorder
        It’s not like he can call the police
        Fist they’d throw him out

        White billowing sheet
        Not unlike huge sails on fantasy ships
        Bound for unknown places
        For unknown reasons
        Given shape and form by the wind
        She twitches

        The piles of newspapers twitches
        And he crouches . . .
        Slowly . . . ever so slowly
        Twitches again
        He wants to run
        He wants a weapon
        He moves closer

        And there she is
        This beautiful girl
        Asleep in the trash
        Cold from the night
        He leans back and considers

        In her dream
        There is someone . . .
        A man
        There is a man moving through
        the sheets
        She can see his silhouette
        But can’t see his face
        She is afraid
        But somehow he glows . . .

        He considers leaving her to the rats
        Considers throwing something
        and maybe she will run away
        He waits

        She snaps into awareness
        Screaming
        He falls over backward
        Trying to get away

        And so they find each other
        In this post industrial wreckage warehouse
        Wherein resides the Human Heart
        And any number of other arcane devices of unknown
        intent



        Quixotic as ever


        William C. Burns, Jr.
        Millennium Artist
        matrix437@...


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