The Fringe

Chimera Poetry

There is no zip code for her,
no snugshut windows
no locked doors keeping back the dark.
No walls to hang a calender,
or diploma,
and there is no reflective glass
or bathroom mirror she would dare to look into…
The Edges of Society,
the Fringe…
that all sounds much neater,
 and more finely mapped,
much more
than it is.
For her 
or anyone
to dwell there
isn’t a matter of address,
of forwarding mail,
of deciding between curtains or mini blinds.
It’s not hiring a creaking moving van  
with cracked vinyl seats.
It’s both a clutching,
and a letting go,
but you don’t jerk awake before the impact.
There is no last second saving you from the repeated collisions,
and the constant bruising,
and the notches chipped from your spine, 
are the only way of marking the time….
The drinkers hour,
the hour of…

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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