As you sit there watching the homeless man with carpet padding scarfed around his neck draping down to his feet flip through a magazine he dug out of a trash can, leaning against the trash can, legs crossed, you think: at least there’s always hope. . .
You’re wronged until they’re rot, then what have you got?
There are no ideas in things, you are the inventor!
In the silence between words is the yawning gap of my loneliness and beyond this seemingly endless abyss the nation-state borderline rages like singed leafy edges holding on hard to what use to be
While you drift quietly to sleep i feel in time when your absence will leave a hole.
If you hear my name after an evening autumn rain, it’s because i am cedarwood incense and frog sounds.
Sometimes I might buy an onion, or two, just to have out on the counter-top.