(2014)
reflecting on the moment before, would be useful only were it not already perfect.
now, I’m no Bukowski but my friends who don’t like poet… except his stuff, tell me they like mine, and I can drink like a drinking machine
first fruits hardly a handful, the garden
if i stub my fucking toe it’s their fault so say i, and who could argue? you almost
oh, and how it gets you these bastard assumptions, one or two commonalities
there are never really any angels in god’s company, it really just pretends them
you are guilty of failing to love and understand me, like a dog is guilty of failing to speak or use
unspeakable dearth of nutrient the cause of the complaint, lack of the sweet titmilk of human connection,
god is unwelcome in suburbia, the cells are too comfortable there, & love rests best under stars.
finally, without knowing it was coming, he got to die. it was great. like a birthday party clown, he was equally the center
webwomb’s not the maker of me. came into it as falling is done. down, only always
may be too onerous a task for those not starving. lucky
nobody goes mad on purpose, also never is it not shared,
the very idea that i could be
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