Poems of the Week: 2025
It’s been a rainy, relatively windless fall, the aspen leaves clinging.
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I like to take little sips of the horror, morsels of poisoned meat.
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Who will call out as I descend, the world blurring by in sleep and despair?
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Is there anything that hasn’t been sold yet? If it’s true then let’s celebrate.
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The toes you step on today may be attached to the ass you kiss tomorrow.
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How High Is the Moon? Too high to be touched, too high to be felt.
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Let father be a man walking to the river, ready to bargain with water.
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