Sunday, June 21, 2015


Poem to Nowhere (with Wolves)

Stupidly, I fail to mention
my happiness. One mouth
plus one week plus maybe
another week by now.  Some
people collect hearts.  I give
mine away.  In pieces.  I am,
however, surviving okay like
this, see?  Well.  Right at this
moment.  With the grinding,
etc.  But I feel art (as I eat a
french fry).  An attempt to
dig out of the French poodle.
I have to get myself wrapped
up and out the door, somehow.
The number one reason to wrap
oneself up in a pub (and not a
poodle) is that the high is so
incredibly cosmopolitan.