roger singer | unsatisfied & my river


An ocean of sleep
presses the shoreline of her eyes.
A season
of blue waters inspires
her inner depths;
she spreads waves with a voice
stolen from angels.

A language raises
her hands to the pearls of smiles
and shoulders
where her burden burns
dust into life blown ashes
as words tumble
like black oil
covering all angles
of sight.

Neon arrows
point to the
irrepressible, unsatisfied
red of her

She is the carrier of the burden,
like a gathering of
unbroken sticks,
she marks the skin of jazz.


Washed in the black,
touched by the brass,
where cigarettes and sweat
open doors to chairs
with hungry eyes
and honey for tongues.

Full pocketed thieves
touch the stars
where gods sing through sandpaper
and angels wear stockings
under streetlights
where shadows are home.

Rivers flow the pulse of jazz,
past cities of broken chains and hate,
louder than blind church bells
and knees full of selfish prayers,
where flesh spills over like whiskey,
possessing some and drowning others,
as years pass to the
sound of feet moving.

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