Sunday, December 16, 2007





EMPTY PALM

Toss your arms toward winter, when summer
is the barren ground. Your loved ones become icons; senseless saints and vibrant clowns.
The hand that reaches is the hand that creates, is the one that refuses, turning all beauty to waste.
My prayer is the slim leaf that falls openwhen no one else is around.
-

Monsters

  • (no title)
    THE DEAD ARE THIEVES, TOO They’ll pick your pocket clean, like that Ozark you left by the river. How many times do I have to talk to you? ...
  • (no title)
    CIVILIZATION AND ITS’ DISCONNECTS Turn off your computer. I know, I know. I will cease to exist. I will return to my cave of shadows, ha...
  • (no title)
    Tattle-Tale Nation