Wisps by Walter Bjorkman

You spin in that downward vortex of your dreams towards the darkness of the edges. Sometimes it is too dark to see anything, other times too bright. Lichen stains on a South Dakota rock and multi-colored algae in a Death Valley mudpot converge as tannic stained waters yellow-diamond fall in the Upper Peninsula. The kid wouldn’t give you your sneaker back when you got fired from the group home, so you go home on the bus and ferry one shoed. The vest she was wearing at the airport when she picked you up, she found as she rode the Andes alone in her young womanhood while you cried in the Pacific ocean. “People’s Park”, the charlatan Berkeley rebel proclaims as he shows off the blood on his collar and the power hunger he so despises, yet wants, needs, in his eyes. A can of fresh-picked walnuts and figs sent wrapped in a painted coffee can across the country.


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Filed under Walter Bjorkman

3 responses to “Wisps by Walter Bjorkman

  1. Bits and pieces tell stories. Nice.

  2. Ganymeder

    This reads like a Walt Whitman poem. :)

  3. Pingback: Week #21 – Unseen « 52|250 A Year of Flash

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