It Is In The Small Things We

My Business Is Words. Words Are Like Labels, Or Coins, Or Better, Like Swarming Bees.

The Grass As Bristly And Stout As Chives And Me Wondering When The Ground Will Break And Me Wondering How Anything Fragile Survives

Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear Slaps Like A Spot Of Rouge.

Despite My Asbestos Gloves, The Cough Is Filling Me With Black, And A Red Powder Seeps Through My Veins.

I’ll Put It Out There: I Am Scarred By The Nostalgic Indicipherability Of My Own Desires; I An Engulfed By The Intimidating Unknown, Pushed Through Darkness And Dragged Down By The Irretrievable Past Sweetness Of My Memories.