In cloudy skies we can point to everything,
To find similarity and we described it
In high school English to empty the milk cartons of meaning.
Gentlemen reflect in receding ice cubes and
Swinging across Elm into urbanite cock fights.
Floating, melting into her whiskey colored eyes
The missus distributes disambiguated dinners
With a side of dry rye wit
Ladies wearing smart suits
Tahitian pearl chokers
Rhinestone bangle bracelets
Bengal tiger-print hot pants.
A real mistress
Ends in a whisper
Her knowledge sits stuck
In the back of a cab.
Like all irrelevant souvenirs.
So hoist up the John B’s sail See how the main sail sets Call for the Captain ashore Let me go home, let me go home I want to go home Well I feel so broke up I want to go home Hoist up the John-b sail. See how the main sail sets, I groan […]Read more
Depression and cancer. The locks to my prison, to which keys do not exist; there’s no cure, and there’s no future with happiness together as a team, the team I really counted on – but as Einstein said not all things that can be counted, should.Read more
There is no greater sorrow than to recall the misery in time we were happy – Dante A belligerent handshake, a reluctantly shared cab. “You know where to let me out?” Your smile, a dagger, Mouth unwrapping secrets, your sleeves full of cards. My stomach twists into a gilded fist, so hard, Throwing a kiss, […]Read more