Winter warning: honeyed shovels scattered on the ground
We whisper into the early morning hour out of respect for the dying night
the thing I love about futballers is that they'll keep running at and trying to beat an opponent, they rarely give up. It's amazing how quickly and easily their joy becomes your joy, your joy becomes my joy.
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