the rain arrives shuffled asking asylum outside's noisy too much to sit consider on the fall
[read more]

Use the summit of your shoulder as a fulcrum to rest this on. Point. Squeeze. God is great.
[read more]

Rabbitwire does nothing for the soundtrack. Every day is a Tuesd ay. Tai's coughing is his only j oke. Ying farts when she breathe s out and spits grey into a cup she sometimes empties in the mor ning. Nothing surprises here so there can't be anything beautifu
[read more]

The last time I lived with Mom was also when Jess and I painted our bodies over each other.
[read more]

Today never seems to quit greying. Fruit loops spilled since yesterday make pebbles from sunlight, that are gorgeous to count but don't add up to anything solid. Ain't much between the 1st and 15th. A saint of sawdust fills the room, remainder waste from a half assed job of fixing things or making new.
[read more]

I have to admit there is some hope in the told fortune of tomorrows. Tuesday is an Improvised Explosive of yeah, maybe this could work maybe something will turn out OK. Falling asleep in the middle of the day is a kind of goodbye, a muted going-away attended by one and thrown in your name.
[read more]

Have you ever thought that lightning while it's deciding its way in the sky sees down the wells of our eyes through its glass bottom belly and thinks these suckers will always be married to their shoes and held together with jobs before it pools into a gift of light on the ground like a nightie shimmied down?
[read more]