Monday, June 28, 2010


Just a slippery, quicksilver glimpse

of someone faintly resembling her

or the mere mention

of her name in passing

between two passing strangers

(maybe a seeing-eye-dog

and a black bird perched

on a parking meter,

this time)

and a thin, murder-red line of liquid fire

meanders its way, languidly,

down the spiny contour

of this bizarre,


installation piece

I call my soul,

pooling, slowly,

in the stone bowl

of my belly, where, it will

bubble and hiss and sulk

long into the night.

-Jason Ryberg, 2004

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