You whispered back to me your favorite line,
not too much blood, but it hurt,
bodies twitching to Hacket’s horn
as it smoked the blues, always
a useful corrective
for that elemental surge
of selectively recovered memory.
There’s a haze of booze in the warm wet morning air,
when the unfamiliar roar comes and a light pours in,
scribbling the onomatopoetics. I am
resolute in my solitude; I am
destined to my oblivion.
During every First Tuesdays open mic, we communally compose a cento using language taken from each open-mic reader’s offering. This cento is composed of lines from the work of: Peter Marra, Pat Duffy, Herb Rubenstein, Andrew Dick, David Siller, Semonti Wahed