Philosophic Fragments
Love is a memory. Love is a memory that’s present, / A memory not resolved, not passing into past,
JAKE
Desert Meadow
All through winter life burnt; all through spring. / Autumn, a spoke on the same wheel, will repeat
Strange Uterus
The fire danced, made the shadows quiver. The pile of mail, the letter opener on the cabinet, the single bookshelf: all creeping in at the edges of the darkness.
I’m glad I’m not rich because I’m pretty sure I’d be an asshole
you can never be an ocean / if you’re afraid to make waves
Before Kickball
Home plate the man hole cover / Pitcher’s mound that line of orange spray paint
One Dead Day
“What Should we do with the body?”
Bearded
It bifurcated at the chin and it bulged at the cheeks. It certainly did look like the objects being mimed.