The downed pines Heavy and mute In their destruction Are the path now, No stretch of sand, No line of seaweed Even.
I found Pluto on the beach. It nestled in seaweed clumps, Its loneliness revealed In its austere singularity Amidst the surf,
There you are deep inside, curved legs against shell, visible life in death brought to shore.
What a dick! Pug a beast* You’re on the wrong channel. I think I can. I think I can. . . . new set of handcuffs That’s what her name was. I think I just dropped 2 tickets Down the hole. Dispatch? . ….
I am currently working on the third exhibit for the museum (finished the Marginalia and Door poetry ones), and this one will be poetry inspired by and about cats. I have modge-podged a few old drawers with some poetry and pictures and I’m figuring…
Pyramids in the Tulsa desert An iron insect spitting sand. Shaggy black quarry dog, stray god of the river, lopes between the dozers.