Monday, May 13, 2019


forging strange statements at uncomfortable hours
the typical time for drunken poetics

the purity of this kind of poverty
this kind of integrity
this kind of nuisance

destroying a texture
diseasing a mind
worrying out worm holes
crushing chasms

there are woolen patches where flesh was
they work their way to a core
they make their way through arterial passages
into a more profound and pounded kind of pavement
the stiff seriousness of a stone that keeps peeling back like onions