virus
sick in bed, i feel too bad to write an hour of feverish agitation is but ten minutes on the clock. o, endless rain tonight you’re no sweet lullabye
sick in bed, i feel too bad to write an hour of feverish agitation is but ten minutes on the clock. o, endless rain tonight you’re no sweet lullabye
pale-green deep-green, grey-green, purple-green spots of poppy-orange and purple- paper-flower. what happened to the manzanitas? and then… their charred remains
rushing to meet a friend, i pay the toll and cross the northern bridge-first time in years. at the edge of the known world, the radio reception gets rather poor
poetry is a vain pursuit, i know one big “you had to be there” moment even worse is trying to explain it a corpse, doused in cheap perfume
an idling van, chattering wayward bicycles jasmine mingles with fresh manure a lone blue light atop a single gatepost the only wind, this fart