Refuse/d words built into infinite forms of bodies. This collection is unedited; done in one sitting; sometimes daily, frequently infrequent.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012


The breeze
is earthen and smells
like camomile-
those flowers
yellow, dried, and seeped
into waiting throats,
desperate for home
lacquered in honey
and bitten in lemon aids.


wound clouds,
scraps of drift storm
move like beasts
across a graphite plain.

Over the city they migrate
the disentangled motion
allowed to the sky.

And myself,
the city, slick river,
cars, sick grass
crumbs of glass:
all nonsense,
all gone in an instant.