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Esteban Colon

July 22, 2013

Standing on this Flat Earth

 

the edges aren’t always as far as you think
nostalgia display screens grind hope from strangers who have powdered the things of dreams
scream on street corners of a track mark Jesus Christ hotel room obituary
the edges aren’t always as far as you think

we are prodigal in our existence

Nephilim walk past downcast eyes like a dark brilliance too large for irises and
every day we try to capture light like pictures held between thumb and forefinger, pray for rain like
dollops of liquid infinity, sniffing lines of reality so hard our noses bleed, I’m sniffing lines of reality so hard my nose bleeds, the edges aren’t always as far as you think – spirals of coils never seen, like artificial intestines hugging.

gears of war wrap arms around me, veins grind rust pushing orange dust out every cut, till
spotted grease black hands builds skin
the size of wills and egos
skin chapped leather on human bones
and
the edges aren’t always as far as you think
the edges aren’t always as far as you think

 

 

Esteban Colon is a writer from the south suburbs of Chicago.  He is a founding member of the Waiting 4 the Bus Poetry Collective.  His works have found their way into journals such as “Rhino,” “After Hours,” “CC&D Magazine;” collections such as “Poised in flight,” “The American Open Mic Vol.2,” and “Bump in the Night;” and have been collected in the chapbooks “Between Blue Lines,” and “Edgar Avenue.”
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