she dances like a fool at the idio… gracelessly fueled by cocktails and
if you’ve show up to the poetry re… with no poems to read you better worry because you can’t go on stage with… so start looking for an exit
illuminated with the yellowish-ora… parked alone now waiting to be driven away by the last man at the office dedicated to his job
this shirt screams “i’m not still fucked up from last…
if the fairy spreads her thighs for the goblins finger the happy ending never comes even if she does
watching horror films on vhs with gramma saturday nights
the blade has always been dull how it was made never
the Allen Bradley Tower clock looks at me like an all knowing ey… it tells me “you are home you were not born here
in all restaurants madness overwhelms the staff spirits break like plates
i would be excited to hold it tickle its little belly and watch it laugh if it cried i would search enthusiastically
slippery bars make it hard to hold… captive against your will always lathered in the sweat of es… you elude any sentence
when she doesn’t love you the guts are pulled out from insid… life spills from the bones and your heart forgets to beat you become a ghost
THE ARTIST constantly trying to get somewhere he
i search each second find words under rocks and rugs looking for poems
misgivings of tide familiar qualm of the sea home where we are lost
