well I've got my T's crossed for you
let us know

Good luck with it Sara

Cyn,

I'm guessing she deleted it to have it saved for publishing. If not, she should, it's so good.

Namaste,
~Tim

I have looked and looked and can't find any glitch,this is vintage.Thanks for sharing.

Sara,

I've been here so many times I can't count.
Each reading leaves me giddier than before. The run-on quality is right on. The only sticking point in this breathless read is the reproduction of 'their fall'. This double usage (i.e. ending the line before and starting the line after without repeating those words with a period in-between creating a line that looks like: their fall. Their fall...) creates a stumble and fall that seems to be so purposeful that if the reader has bought by the time that little trick shows up, then they probably didn't get to that point.

Those line breaks seem organic in nature and I don't know if I should suggest touching them. The only line break I'd quibble over is ending whatever line it is on 'crappity smack' and bring 'he' down to 'he sees'. The other line places Satan right next to he, which also lets the verbs strung together by and's work their own magic.
It's the first 'he' (yes, I only want one of those so close to each other) line break can be moved and I think a successful pause at the end of the line actually helps the reader keep up without any loss of intent or real recapture of breath.

Did I mention I love this? The imagery of your poems grows and grows as of late, much to my benefit.


Namaste,
~Tim

Although a lot of potential within the poem but as is--IMO the ideas are a little all over the place as if trying to catch the rain from a dozen leaks running around with a teaspoon...

drops -fly towards skin, heavy like the sweat of ideas, and glisten-down temples and arms and legs and hairwhat is this but a disconnected list?
and brows, shoulders, shirts.-

he makes--fly/ heavy/ sweat- ideas??


 the rest repetetive, without purpose , no real connect to the "he",  the narrator,  or the poem, itself. At this juncture, feels and reads, jumbled and pointless
He tries to be a poem but falls short 
for pharmaceuticals, the slow 
rush of chemicals that end
him; “nothing great comes from lack
of affect” he hears but deaf ears,
deaf ears don’t listen to birds lament 
seasons or rivers of cars streaming.
He likes to lick pills from his palms 
slick with tears and ink
he likes to write drunk, his eyes 
blur and the force of words
pushes his fingers to the keys. He’s all pharmaceuticals.
Well, maybe a little alcohol, plus some weed usually he does
not see smiles just tongues not girls just a crappity smack he 
sees poems running in his head like Adam and Eve
ran through Eden, he is jealous Satan he
watches and waits and brings
their fall
is a lesson he can teach he is a poet
who drinks and smokes and sleeps 
and breathes and I am jealous
that it comes so easy. [/quote]

Don't you just hate people like him, lol but in his instability are the words he expresses and you have done it well too.  Just a few too many uses of the word "like" and maybe in places you could extend the imagery.

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