In the early dawn, drawn from sleep, I snake through dewy grass. Light gleams off of these fresh blades, in the foreground of the thicket. Voluptuous oak and pine tower over these younglings and this youngling, with damp Converse. Forsythia fondle my feet as I follow moist soil and observant raspberries. Despite my wish to be enveloped by leaves, blanketed by birch, I burst out of this vibrant archway, smoked out by the requirements of my education. I move past the broken-cha
Some kind of sadness in the skin of the dog—neck cut crisp against the leash— hand—stranger—tugging along nature false—around the pond three times—garrote on the bark— by domestic dullest—remembered path— back behind walls—dog trained—loves in accord.
There’s something visually poetic about a man sleeping under a shrine of himself what good will your vanity do you? what good will your billions do you? We worship everything from money to power. The man in the White House surely sleeps clutching onto his ego. I’d like to think of him painted above a fireplace. Does the picture corrupt itself with every tweet? Maybe the orange begins to tint itself as it rots away. This is a dangerous assumption. Believing that there is a sou