Working on a travelogue pome (excerpt):

These weeks of summer
my limbs are hammered a hot gold
taped with pale evocations
accessories that shun the midday glare.

But sun can blister even thru morning fog
and it does, molten pronouncements
on the tips of my ears,
soon to scab and scar in sheets
immolated for the sake of foolish pride.

Oh reader, I know content has been fucking scarce these past few months, but I just bartered myself a new-to-me computer and I’ve got a hell of a lot of things to say. Just you wait. Just you wait and read.




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