No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Birds were nesting inside the two ‘O’s of COOPER’S HARDWARE. I could see the mother bird fly in and out, she fluttered from one ‘O’ to the other—sticks and feathers and leaves occasionally spilling out with her back-and-forth movements. I couldn’t see details from the ground, but I envisioned her spitting worms and slugs—and whatever else birds eat—into the squeaking, pink beaks of her young.
This evening felt like childhood and church and Bacchanalia.
I do not try to resolve the contradictions
To celebrate a windfall, Greb invites you to meet him at the Caffe Boho, where he informs you of his intent to blow the money on a month in Mexico.
sitting here feeling like a used car
one part after the other failing me
the aroma of fresh brewing coffee
wakes my brain cells
Probably for the fifth time during the night I check my phone. I haven’t got up to check. I steal a look only because I’ve got up.
To be born in a paradise of green
Rich crops in fields protected by scarecrows
Amidst trees, flowers and endless hedgerows
Below hilltops that overlook the scene
Stretching far across an idyllic dream.
Is to know, that urban longing follows
To escape from rural woodland hollows
Towards the big city’s magnetic gleam.