smash and grab
waiting to return
Poetry
On my third beer watching "The Decline of Western Civilization"
swords of Damocles hanging over us all
Even the scarred can dream on New Year's Eve
once mere debris - /
now sweep the stars,
every time i sigh i can’t help but think i’m getting a little taste of what it's like to die
A poem
November
You are no longer a child.
First snow
turning to dust. A sheetless bed.
Dead or Alive
burying the /
man /
alive.