damn, skippy

Everyone is taller than me. I am dwarfed by the simply above-

Woe, etc.


Rejected, out on a wire he writhes.

Why so thirsty? How are we so desperate?


There’s a picture of a poet above the bar
on the cover of that vinyl record sleeve:

Graham Parsons, king of honky-tonk & heartbreak.

The bottle continues to let me down, buddy.


less than five
ain’t high bro


I make the sign of the cross as a fire truck
goes by, but it’s an act.
I pull out my headphones during ads;
I can’t be bothered being told what to buy.
I have enough on my plate.


A woman talks creation with some strangers and her husband.

What to do, how to go. They chat on mortician conferences

and friends buried next to children; the couple talks unmarked graves, no coffins.

They’re striving for death to be ‘pure,’ minimal.

When is it not?

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