Updated: Jan 26, 2019

this is a lie

we struggled against the terse phrasing of mark strand

i wanted to be the subject of your work

and other new york bullshit

one of these trains should go to the desert

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six birds fly the form of freckles near your mouth i knew that you were the face of god that the sky was there for reading


god told me to get a haircut i was looking for my haiku about winter i dream i am already at work between the cars of the train a single flake of snow i have to write some of this shit down


i want to taste the female flavoring in your skin in your mouth to begin writing place the tip of the pencil at the top left corner of the page the last time i got my hair cut my mother was alive