“Hope bases vast premises on foolish accidents, and reads a word where in fact only a scribble exists.” -- John Updike
half and half
fuck it, heavy cream
Good luck at pinpointing
that airport pre-flight feeling.
trash bags and stickers
A 43 year old busboy at the diner
wipes the table, looks out at the craft
of clouds. What stripe is hope?
Crickets send up automatic monotony.
Silence as harvest.
her dull egg eyes
Frost bedizens the windshield.
spicy tuna roll
Boulevard of Broken Dreams
The real is magic,
the magic is real.