everything in this gelatin world is sooner or later adopted by mother saw and father axe.

stepping on all continents at once, watching a fat man walk by with all of Ecclesiastes printed on his shirt.

You wandered back into view like the moon on a sunny spring day

despairingly hopeful like a credit card in a wishing well.

Camas fields like the headstones of dead angels.

I fill the you-shaped hole with what I wish you were.

wearing out my memories like overused LPs.

The irreducible complexity of irreconcilable contradictions.

The last thing the axe chops is its own handle.

The childlike scribbles traced by the needle of record-skipping time.

All that's left is words I wish I had invented.

Darkness stalking the edge of town like a mad night falling.

playing Cyrano to my own Christian

cloves and a forty of pbr. this poison gives life

these trees are still dressed in flesh, but their cheekbones have gone hollow and their ribcages are showing. soon they'll be skeletons.

delightful possibilities open before me like an origami flower and i wonder, what the fuck am i doing?

i'll always imagine my grandfather as old, his creaky arthritic knuckles complaining under the planes he fixed in the war.

each of these words is a small sin in the doubting of providence.

Bukowski like fire in my belly and Kerouac like my own patron saint of wanderings.

every time i meet someone it's a little kiss. then i put my mouth on theirs and slip em the tongue.