Making My Confession (version 3)

[TranquillityBase]

In a junkyard of dawn’s dreaming
next to a ziggurat of glass bottles
dilettantes sit on milk crates
sipping tepid lattes. They speak
in whispers, not to be overheard
by the spies in the bottles.

Recording their sermons in an alphabet
of my own invention,  I carry them home,
memorize the lines and repeat them
as I encounter another day’s self-deceptions 
until dusk’s slow dismantling 
releases me and night makes me 
invisible again.

v.2
In a junkyard of dawn’s dreaming

next to a zigurrat of glass bottles

dilettantes sit on cracked milk crates

sipping tepid lattes served by a waiter

costumed as a plague doctor.  They speak

in whispers, not to be overheard

by the spies in the bottles.



The stenographer, a junkie from Amarillo,

transcribes their sullen sermons into an alphabet

of her own invention.  I will carry it home,

memorize the relentless lines and repeat them

as I read a day’s deceptions from faceless aviators

until dusk’s slow dismantling releases me

and night makes me invisible again.





v. 1

In the wasteland of dawn

dilettantes meet for coffee

sitting on cracked milk crates

sipping tepid lattes, served 

by a silent plague doctor.

They speak only in whispers.  

The stenographer transcribes 

their sincerely worried opinions

into a language not yet spoken.

I will carry the transcript home,

memorize the relevant lines

so I can repeat them to myself

as I walk through the deceptions

of another day until dusk 

releases me from impotence

and night makes me invisible

to my collected disappointments.