I like to think I’m also sprung, released from the furnace knocks, done with the heavy meat stews and salty soups.
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls on me to make the salad.
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
you quit wearing pants loaf around your yard in hole-nipped panties
I am still waiting for the lion
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
the man is stayed bent over the canvas of my sofa. the man is me the man is him self and I bring down the whip…
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
The sin is existing.
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.