Controlled Scribbling

Have Someone

Do it in the dirt with a steamroller.
Steel over sand grates a man.
In the wind under an atmosphere of wet mist.
A gold sword pierces the passionate pink petals of a rose.
Leaving no trace of being.


This was written on a beautiful summer day over pitchers of beer at Miller's Pub in Chicago by someone whose name I have forgotten. If you wrote this, forgive me, I remember you but not your name.