all those poems before
talking about rebirth
and life
no matter
what anyone says
this is the
stagnant
water-logged
broken promise
of a season
when all I want
is that
white knuckled
whining engine
roaring wind
pounding ocean
a baptism of living
a violence in nature
of fire and sex
I keep a brass bowl of paperclips from a man that didn't want to even give all of it away but he had to because there was no use for anything like that anymore sometimes I stare at it and wonder if th
it's days like this with the sun blaring and the birds calling with mowers in the distance that I know I wasn't made for summer but I can't help feel the flickering neon lights of anticipation in the
There's a metal cup of coffee getting cold somewhere in a house where someone has forgotten that they even made it because the weight of living in this place and the amount of money owed has taken hol
