The fence falls over, wind rattles the house
Baking bread and the oven door groans
Don’t worry little dog, it’s just the entropy blues
Walking in a light rain
The word “cauterize” hits me
As in “cauterize” the poetry feet
My maternal grandfather built some of America’s first motor cycles and motor cars. He was wild. He aimed a shotgun at a porcupine and shot himself in the head. He said: “ricochet—just a flesh wound…”
Blind why do I like dusk so much?
Why does ether love morphine?
American happiness is a strange addiction, washed with medical narratives with their political and commercial directives to overcome what ails you, but you see, the psyche knows all along you can’t live that way.
Just the entropy blues
Good morning how are you?