Zoetrope

809 files is what the computer tells me

poems written

whether in the heat of the night or

the bottom of the bottle

Aren’t they all the same

just another trite piece of

my soul splattered upon the page

for mass consumption of the human machine

I feel the familiar burn of alcohol running down my throat

as the poems displayed upon the screen

bring back the memories

like a zoetrope spinning with the ferocity a crystal-meth fiend

then everybody knows

about the bloody cross upon Calvary, Prometheus, etc.

question is will they ever see…

the soul

that lies behind the closed eyes

where dreams are made real

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