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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3522 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention From My Prison Cell Window Jim Doss The stars are bullet-holes in the night's peep-show. The moon is a fist that rushes to greet me from the blue nova of a guard uniform. The planets are blackjacks that chant me into spiritual ecstasy, mind devoid of body. I float, semi-consciousness, hug the four legs of the walls, grasp the four blue torsos that are a stepladder I try to climb. Don’t hit me again unless you’re going punch harder. Don’t kick me unless there’s steel in your boots. What have I done but kill myself by murdering a man over love? Laying on the floor, I taste the ocean in my blood, feel the cold creep into my limbs. The dim flame of the moon tries to warm me. I’m dead, but for the act of dying, and the stars I wish upon are nothing more than bullet-holes that slowly burn their destiny into my skin. |
