I tap at the alphabet while a single deer taps at the dirt beyond the brush on the far side of the tree line.
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
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.
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
I am still waiting for the lion
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
I buy too much, for someone of my stature. could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin. its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.