dedicated to day
with dirty feet,
I turn.
who has extra space
in this town?
damned be this wind.
no subject
new
few as stripes and stairs and stares in lines at the grocery.
inside jokes
happen;
other things happen, too.
the guts of this gig
are gross,
especially with sprained ankle.
I literally
don't care much about your eight-hundred;
werds are mispelled words and my memory sucks.
butt
fuck it,
forget it, let's move on and eat lunch.
creamy,
not crunchy.
fuck that mouthful, yacht.