pounding the pavement in this human race I am losing it; I feel like a shit sac with arms. God gave me a voice but the devil with that
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minimalist haiku
waking throat dry as a vase’s
cafe menu de jour
shepherths pie lantil soup or ceasars salad; do I dare?
Highway
After miles of self-elected pace setter cars, swervers who pass and cut back like pinking shears, the perpetual left turn signaller took a right off-ramp, it’s me and the ones going by like I’m standing still, and the poke-a-long-hazardy with dents on both sides of body panels. On the 417, around a bend, rows of […]
you had frowned but
on my machine not months but moments passed since in your recording your face lightens hair blows from your brow tickles your exposed neck