I can’t write it. The lockdown of life. But, that seems unimportant compared to the taking. Knees on necks. Shotguns to abdomens. Teargas and crispen orange blazes– a clear quarantine that’s been lived in your street and communities and homes …
Tag: Poem
the dark parts
The rusty blood crust that waits in the corners. It’s always been there. Now with a sidecar of brave. You’re hunted on the street like an animal the same animal you came from. Different skin. There was …
Decades
I can’t quantify a year. Or ten. I can’t look back and say …this moment was best. Because every second that my feet find their way to the cold hardwood floor each morning is a second I want to breathe …
An ode to oatmeal
The purple bowl with the dopey-eyed lama flies through the air, landing face-down on the hardwood, oatmeal exploding from all sides like an eruption of sticky silt landing heavy in a circumference of at least twelve feet from the epicenter. …
