a nowhere in the center of everything

excepting summer storms

few ravaged peaks drawn blank by Tomlin, trenchant, torrential.

She, the lurid lark of brown cavernous carrion, the perpetual

gash in his rotten mouth,

She doled out fortunes in late autumnal graveyards. strewn

with the rubble of myriad mountains yet to be, and

littered with unearthly bones,

warring, wicked wayward

She eked out sentences, judge jury, executive.


The wood remembers the tree and longs to move again.

the floor kissed, lip and tongue, under the feet

of a quarter-sawn man, checked

and timbered.


This is the sound of the future

methodical chopping dicing, separation of consumables

punctuated by a slight but


beep. only a blip but hot and remote as the reminder

of distant suns

omnipotent reminder of canisters of oxygen exhaling

safely flooding lungs and stoking


that lick around little hearts

the traffic whoosh of asteroids outside – in space-

organic dementia.


she passed an elderly asian man in mesh pocketed vest

wearing a cold and jade ring but missing the

first knuckle

on the first finger of his left hand.

he looked about, sitting on his crate, his throne,

tapping his umbrella to the ground as if it

provided providence.


who rides the uptown train early on a sunday evening

besides lovers and forlorn souls

alike only in their vacant stares at trash that wheels about

their feet

wandering thoughts of both

things found and lost


they told him, you look as though a thinner

fragment of your father.

the father sat impassively, wielding those

meaty thighs of middle age,

next to the mother, adorned in innocuous

decorations, a reddish-orange but lacking the vitality

of her youth, a ripened fruit that is devoid of juice.

this dried apricot echoed words and inched

off into the periphery.


is it the ground that feels hollow


her feet?

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