| thick with conviction a poetry journal |
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M. Travis Walsh eggs
on my back porch I sit and listen to the rain while clutching a book of poems by Artaud, a bottle of shiraz and a cigarette I rolled for myself
for the moment I forget that one day I will die and you will die and every one of us born into this god-forsaken shit-storm will die
for the moment, the wine and the smoke and the grey day (with it's mist gently peppering my arms) makes me think of anything but death such as the way your cat loves to lay in my lap on quiet thursday afternoons after we've made love and the wooden floor seems cold but the house is nonetheless comfortable with Nina Simone coming through the speakers and you standing naked in the doorway asking me how I would like my eggs
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Russ Brickey
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