Book o’ Verse

Everybody’s tired of it today. Tired of the same old everyday vibrations chugging through their bodies down from their throats to their hands to the ground. The lechers are too tired to lech today. You see? Dogs don’t even try to lick their buddies. And now the sidewalk prophets are even putting down their street … Read more

put on a fat coat bagel coat butter coat wind too sharp biscuit coat bones

Taking us from a to b. Varying in heft. Guileless. Craftless. Curving shiny sometimes but still always essentially linear. Scribbly. Stand in front of thirty. “Which one is my favorite?” But how could he possibly know?

This brain don’t tire of shore shrinking to speck as boat pulls away as every day I immigrate.

And the monkey breath! You gotta pack that up, my friend all smelling of termites and sticks and other monkeys. No one asked you to smell that way. In fact, the assignation specifically connoted replicating a contrary stench, to whit: the non-monkey stench. So why carmelize your ack ack ack ack ack, my friend, my … Read more

Gathering glass breath into slushed dixie cups chimney’d through milk wood through worm weed in whispers. Marked pies with iron-crossed crust. Heartfelt. Growing. Red whispers. Sliding up against red-veined wood fences. Slipping into character such that white curves twist toward fading blue words. Graffiti glass breath, my sweetie. Popular chain-gang motif.

He looked like he was drawn not with a pen or a paintbrush but with the dull wet end of a used toothpick. A dent. An imprint. A soft image. Leaving behind a flaw designed primarily to gather dust.

Soon will come a time when we’ll move out to that house by the brook. And the weather will be fine. And the broadband.

Pouring all these good things inside me. Tea. Poetry. Pear tart. Lemonade. Tea. Poetry. Lemonade. Lemonade. Pear tart. Lemonade. Tea. Pale Fire. Pear tart. Lemonade. Hoping some of it sticks.

Perhaps it’s just a dream but I do like the idea of some days having that boot on my desk. Some days not.