isolated Sunday bicycle rides tend to compel long winded speeche… character dialogues from stories i… and plenty of l’esprit d’escalier i speak with the dead
time reduced to ash all the clocks were made of fire burning each second
my knee is there if i need to bend my leg my knee is not there for me to beg if you place an empty plate in fro…
if significant to one and not to another maxims adages cliches
man that lives to yearn sips at the tit of poison no will, but to die
i was born in a basket of apples out of place from the start always berated by questions like “where is your stem?” “why are you so round?”
it was a particularly long day walking around in the Austin heat with too much on my mind i’d avoided the drink though it seemed to call for me fr…
i walk like an appetizer onto the moonlight tongue the wine is in my blood
to have this moment back years from now as i recollect on this poem on this night it’s insignificance shattered with…
the darker the room the more I needed her she was scented with tobacco and cedar
monuments of song returned to life in my hands records from dead men
i almost did not make it to this p… i was stuck in the glory of old verses cadavers un-buried and admired like trophies
we can wear the morning air like a jacket and move deep into those bright
droopy dark circles around the eye… brown eyes sad eyes sometimes he pees on the floor they rub his nose in it
it was never my intention to clip… i was only trying to take a feathe… so that i would have something to… after you flew away
