it will become clearer
like a used bookstore run by nuns
in a grove of redwoods
I looked in the mirror
& couldn’t speak the language
I was able to find a waiting room
filled with blue butterflies from Mexico
I was so happy I started flying
over the protests on a rickety bridge
a computer genius says
there is no difference. crisp dry bacon
kind of like Andy Warhol
who once was a famous jazz piano player
who had a hard time staying in a group
half black, half white
suddenly I was much older
with austere tribal energy
not quite convinced I was a butterfly
Dreams
December 28th, 2007 by bill vartnaw · No Comments
Tags: Features · Poem of the Day · vol 02 issue 51

































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