i am in a divot, in a small little dent on an infinite sided die and sometimes i roll up and sometimes i roll down and sometimes i'm hanging sideways, pushed up against some wall with a million drunken eyes clapping and gin shaking in their teeth. i like being in the image because at least it wasn't here, not here. not. here. who is? really and anyway. i'm just half-way to nowhere.
yet, each day is different... and ellipses are my best friends....
imagine living in a world of words. so many sharp points. could you impale yourself on words? indeed. all the time.
roads extend from my fingers like spines all brittle and cracked like they have been left out in the sun for much too long and have become themselves desert sunsets.
shadows and dark spots. writing is like breathing. could it be less? the poet is poetic. the aesthetic is aesthetic and i am a writer and that makes me free.
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