sandpipers 11-18-12  --SB

Fairy Tale

I despise the managing
of coins and currency,
who-to and when shares of
my disability wages are divvied.
(rumbles inside.)
I feel now, there is
only surrendering.


Once upon a time,
I counted well
in an existence, I’m sure,
not so long ago–
though not a fairy-tale,
for no apparent moral.
Now, it’s all I can muster
to exist at all, to “multitask.”
(nausea inside.)


Today, I barter in words–
I writing for eyes, looking not through,
they reading back, seeing not through.
This, I can never despise,
nor can I any better manage.
It’s simply all I have of value.


The therapy of words
within the shores of my
each lone i-sland breath.
The therapy of a lover’s words into eyes,
written through yearnings
and spectrum of desire,
bleeding with black ink, not blood.


Yes, a bit, I despise, perhaps more.
Yes, perhaps, even a fairy tale–
yet still, no sense of moral.

by S.A. Bort

photo:  “sandpipers” by Steve Bort