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a visual poem I’m ducking from a blow A bulb flickers and blooms A corrupt lawn-mower chokes on wet leaf mulch vomits up my compensation. Yeah, yeah, yeah got down and dirty with a kindly scarecrow Don’t send the snow yet!
We press our lashes together, tangled up like blackberry bushes — Where does one end and the other begin?
She's been trampled and crossed feather-tossed into a bed of shards, bleaching white as a wedding and just as lifeless
We write on laptops, most of us. I still prefer to write down ideas on paper first, but most of my writing is typing, still. There's nothing magical about having a flat, elbow-height surface to prop your work on, preferably in front of a window with a
If the ship were a person, she’d have been a pock-marked whore drifting soberly through the streets, ankle-deep in mess and barefoot. She met every judgmental eye with scorn as if to say, ‘That’s not all.’
