Insatiable critics never play games,
developing love to
unfold the cage of my ribs,
like a piano player might
an organ, collapsing, folding,
bending the crease -
live oxygen to a field
of poppy plants.
Midday Drift
July 24, 2009
There’s no need
May 18, 2008
for me to follow myself any farther. i refuse to walk on my own heels, constantly containing my self-hatred, or tasteless spill where the words are parched, dried of the essence of a carrying stream. instead, have become a heap of dust that slides off my tongue into a soft teasing breeze covering a vast [...]
