words. music. randomness. life.
New music: Kibo’s Dream
That’s your fist in the fight…
The first time was strange as most first times go…
On Jovian Clouds
If ever there were a man…
All about us pirouette the perfect proofs
I’m jaded-shy enough to miss it.
Ask a man if, after being beaten down…
My heart has become gaunt of fate, my traipsing twisted.
We’ve all, at some well-remembered time in our lives, had a heart condition that came close to killing us…
The toil and over-turned earth of it, for but a dearth of believable dreams.
Through the muck and the mud and the mirage of pyrite…
Against all my heart has loved I hold a difference and a debt
she slapped him
Strange does fit the recluse, dresses up a bit the riddle of it.
I’m gonna move it a millionth-mile…
There’s right; there’s wrong.
Not all fights are with fists.
He slunk as he whispered it: “Don’t do this.”
But you’re another, and war I’ve no hope but not to wield.
“There is something about this picture,” she penned…
No legend came by it ignobly
It was a rickety rack and a rook at risk, all chess to be checkmated, I swear.
No man is an island, though he designs to be.
Not for the forethought of it
For the chance, his chin took it
Give me the prick of suffering, then.
Like pines that chase the fawn.
A high five-ku
Are clouds good for skipping stones? I’d like to know…
Circle the wagons: the bonfire burns.
Your salted instance, a glinting bastion.
I let them go. I flail them in.
Stay the hell away from why.
It starved me then. So I ate from it twice.
Maybe you’ve never seen a man lose his hope in the smoke…
Let me be…more than that bitter-root wine.
Maybe it doesn’t matter if you do right.
Leave me to live on your ceiling and, between us, well enough alone.
Happiness, I swear…
I fought four decades of demons to be sought, bloodied-over…
To what sunset should I sweat-lay the rail?