Sunday, April 27, 2008


The only living angle on the curb is the one you birth.
Kendall ain’t a ghost, he’s a cloud of smoke.
Whether it’s knock-down or knock-out, it’s the same difference.
Next year’s fad can’t compare to life alone, onstage.
Our breadcrumbs lead to a frozen lake.
Carbon-dated whiskers keep falling on your back.
Every sliver of hope is encased in a block of wood.
The council won’t show their faces.  They’re all plaid hoods and voice boxes.
My only caveat is that there will be no more caveats.
The auto body shop is filled floor to ceiling with hangnails.
This shirt you bought me used to be too small, but as I shrank, it filled up with ideas.
Blinking streetlights aren’t just blinking.  They’re signaling S.O.S.
I trust no one, but the person in front of me.


          Now, read those back to me.  If they stick to the wall, they’re tomorrow’s fly paper.








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