June 2010
6 posts
7 tags
2 tags
Something gets said and the air ripples a straight-line hair across your closest eye— snaps against the bridge of your nose and pops your glasses.
You buried your cigarette butts in the black-sinew sand pulsed up by the wake— delivered to its dead and dying friends floating on the top of this reflected mountain under you
4 tags
Sentient mother six foot tall with those heels dyed pink to match the pole
Ed Hardy bag “hardly egged hag” two or three in a trailer in Reno
Tuck ‘em in (the firefight roars) burning down the back yard extinguished in acid rain
Salient mother two feet, all
2 tags
stay busy keep your hands moving, occupied
keep your brain cranking with possibility
know that noone can read this tiny handwriting
3 tags
4 tags
the great consideration of the beatniks was just jazzin
a trade secret they’ve come to contemplate posthumously