Guinness harpness rumdark (coffee). More than enough sans tan. That moth didn’t make it, flirting with that flame in our arroyo. The good news is not all was lost: spider watch, wait, stagnant as patterns like ours. Yummy. A trap unspoken, unspeakably loved to death. I need to finish this game, pin the tail on. Get some lawyers. Eat. Yodle, “Craig has a list that’s broken.” Hand to trace-lace-bind, center stuff, burlap pokeydead center, look ma no hands. Tattletales don’t exist if yr rich. Whose dropsy keeps our system so blottobloatado? Whatchanow? Whodunnit? (This whore’s in pieces). Bleedwork box leftbehind leaves us dna-denied and blind.. Had she a future past this picture less-than -perfect post-greeting, I would have taken care of her. Uh-huh. Nothing more to do but whine, whinny, whimper, whistle. Trent Reznor’s turn.
Poetry Reading Saint Mark’s Poetry Project 3/22/17
14 hours ago