Shloka Shankar


I deconstruct a black nova
creeping back like Tolstoy’s white bear;

confused dreams rise
like a prayer to some satellite
and then back down to my ear—

colors the brilliance of a high fever,
logic like Dalí clocks gone soft as throw-rugs.

A turn of the index finger away
from disconnection, a shroud of words.

I might break like glass
if I don’t stop. Rehab my heart.

I don’t call for help. 


A remixed poem composed from select lines and phrases from chapters 1, 2, 3, & 5 of Bag of Bones by Stephen King.

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