Category: Creative Writing
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Memories are deposited, the pains and joys withdrawn – it’s like black-and-white Poland to me, wandering in rags, sleeping in parks, losing muscle just to hustle.
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I can’t say anything anymore, it doesn’t fit through the walls — the sun paper is too thin over the windows, and no one knows I’m still alive inside. There is no fortune to be had behind these LA eyes of sparkling white and bright. And I saw a window…
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I was alone to the bone On an afternoon in Rome The ballistic tests all positive Spears sharpened to a bird-beak point The traffic keeps rolling in honking circles ‘Round a statue of some Italian holy hobo There are flaming balls on catapults And smoky talk in the underground lounge…
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There’s this long line of darkness on the other side of day I stand there listening to the starless sky flow like Styx There’s that smooth dome of light pollution Pulsing like an orange Creamsicle Never sleeping, always dripping Like childhood summer sun And all above it, that starless sky…
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And there were orange baptized bullets lodged in a wall of sea salt adobe and skull, a hard skull of architecture burned and bandaged the sun was far too bright as I dug them out with the tip of a knife and I was suddenly cursing the violence of Southwest…
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She came down from the sky on a glowing escalator and I waited for her in the parking lot. But sometimes I think she was maybe there all along, maybe my entire life and I just didn’t see her because they can be invisible. She looks human. She has all…
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She is everywhere and all over it, a stellar angel chick, shocked me like socket sex, and then just as quickly, pulling me into the trees that rain.
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CEREAL AFTER SEX 