Slide whiste and shit bucket. We'll do our own rendition. Convictions, like haircuts, hold true until the morning they don't. I'll be proved wrong down the road -- not far down the road, mind you; likely just past the next gum coin, before that streetlight retrofitted to look more lampish. Why are disarticulated feet washing ashore in their Nike carapaces like hermit crabs adjusting to habitat loss? The North Pacific Gyre spits out basketballs, pen caps, rat-tail combs for the well-behaved and habitually cagey. Kids, eh? I could have taken prisoners but lack administrative skills, all those numbers followed by letters followed by answering to Amnesty and ghosts bringing in ghosts that exit as corpses. I have my suspicions. It's just I doubt their validity. I take my legs off above the knee, lean both against the armoire, and slide in Chopin while tomorrow balls up its tinfoil and begins to chew.
You can find some short thoughts here, some personal moments, and other nuggets. I hope you'll join me on The Journey. *April was National Poetry Month, so along with some other posts, there was a poem every day here.