
Bygone songs
decorate our notion
of the world,
and mark it's limits.

Bygone songs
decorate our notion
of the world,
and mark it's limits.

Moon reflection sez:
Fuck assumptions.
Look in the sky -
see the real me.

Above
flow and connection,
unfazed
by affliction
or fiasco.

Ginger angel;
frozen gesture,
bloodless gaze,
aberrant flirtation.

Resilient pilings,
losing purpose,
shifting intentions
with the tide.

murder birds
surging power
indifference overflowing


















“I have a friend in Jesus”
says the kid sporting a
second-hand suit and
disinfectant eyes.
With a righteous buzz he
greets strangers,
distributes pamphlets,
spreads his word,
immune to their
rejection and
avoidance.
How comforting his faith must be -
to swim the
medicinal vapors
of certainty,
rather than gather
apples in the
orchard of
not knowing.

Romper Room red PJs,
discarded,
spinning dreadful speculation.

The sheen of noctilucent clouds,
conversant with impending furies
beyond children’s play;
its curtain shredded
by midsummer’s wild shear.