"I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe" ~ Sir Philip Sidney

You laugh so hard you piss yourself and cry Yellow, as you know, my favorite color orange, on the other hand, comes second understanding the spectrum, a delight luxury, our first-world problems, glamor answers the question, the meaning of life understanding language, what is beyond ghosts and ghouls, the horror of terror fright haunted by trauma and triggers, this game subtle as a knife in the back, this strife overcome by sheer diligence to thrive hugs and kisses, a lasting impression artistic endeavors create to strive reason beyond reason as confession distinction in the lecture hall, a shame yolk on my face, in the mirror, I blink orbits of satellites around the sun understanding this luminosity pink aura, remember Tasha, I think introverted universal values solitary encounters as I run such beauty in this gritty, old city yellow shoes win the race, who sings the blues organic, electric Granny Smith green understanding my need for heroin resolved by writing...

How to stay positive in this chaos How to let go of the ego and grow old gracefully with the world on fire who divines mineral water with rod touching my hands firmly but lightly, crow observes this strange occupation to learn stale acts of wisdom without desire tailor-made for experience, the yod assigns activities as understood yolk in the face for the lost boys who yearn positively for a brighter future ostensibly people care, try to help sit in a classroom where there is no cure in schools, with no practice, but pups to whelp time lost in boxes, where there is no good ivory tusks of elephants, beauty visions of the ephemeral, stolen embrace the beautiful and the grotesque insanity to accept harm, duty notwithstanding, murder of animals this being ivory and tusks broken history observes what is camusesque if not quite kafkaesque, in a nutshell sinister Hamlet, out hunting narwhals chaotic disinformation, random how Rosencrantz and Guildenstern stumble abse...

Do the Trains Not Run on Time, Nostalgia? Do not listen while "Turn me on, dead man" orbits "Revolution 9" in reverse the choice to tune in, turn on, and drop out how generations plan how to unplan each decision with schemes ready-to-hand tripping the liquid sunshine dazzle curse reverse the playback on the vinyl grout answers to the meaning of life question insanity as castles made of sand not to state the obvious but language serves the reader as a guide to the swifts not to imply augury as to gauge omens, scan how a tectonic plate shifts temblors shake the earth with indigestion run, run, run, run, run, breathe in and breathe out underneath that façade is a mirror never in a million years would they know only if they read the newspaper, doubt nothing but the naysayers filled with guilt tremblors occur, without a doubt, a lout imagines he could elicit terror messengers as angels dressed for a show emerge from the stage lights, as children pout nostalgia to reme...

Throw Big Brother Under the Bus? For Sure! Throw Big Brother under the bus? For sure! How convenient! Regime change, a quick fix. Runaway Bunny, not so funny, see. Objects in mirror are closer to lure. Windows to the world, Chicago, look out! Big Brother, closer than they appear, Six. Ignorant as the secret police, Gee. Guaranteed to fuck up the world at hand. Brother under the bus? Give me a shout! Rout the oppressors from their beds, not them. Only their friends and families, hurt them all. Though innocent, guilty, caught by the hem. Hurt them all, I never said that, the Fall. Eve fed Adam, politics, desert sand. Remember this is all an illusion! Under the octagon sign, a gem. Nothing more, nothing less, not big, not small. Despite this novel by Stanisław Lem. Embark on a journey from Łódź to Gaul. Remember to travel only by land. Thank me later, or better yet, never. Honestly, I hate this beautiful world. Empty of all value, save delusion. Bus driver from pris...

From the egg, into the middle of things From the moment the door burst wide open roaring like a lion, full of laughter older but never wiser, my brother made life a living hell, we left Big Ben the Great Bell of the Great Clock of London haunted by memories, as old ghosts stir each cup of tea, if you see the other egg on his face, in the mirror, no shame given the status of the first born son given his status as Princeps, Terence in a nutshell, ruined my life, to start noticing each moment, makes a difference to say goodbye to our neighbor, a dart of gold, the pointed tip, who is to blame the fact, Amanda, is always past tense honor and cherish the moment, lead dart enters her flank, horror, love is a game mediocrity, never not to be in Middlesex, we left her far behind demented royalty, God Save the Queen despite moving outside New York City leaving this memory in Middlesex each time, Terence told the story, my mind opened books of myths to explain, unseen fo...

The never-ending ninth inning home runs how this comeback is even possible enormous lead whittled away by chance never could anybody imagine errors of such magnitude to happen virtually impossible but now everyone glued as the action takes place read, this is absurd, and how unlikely except run after run, as the bats crack nobody ever saw it coming, strange despite no runs all day long, the home team in the ninth, won eleven to ten runs now this was Game Three of the World Series given the likelihood of a clear sweep no one could believe their eyes or their ears in one inning, eleven runs to win no one could speak, when it was all over thoughts became electric, a charge for faith however, in what or whom to receive imagination as a well-wrapped gift nobody faulted either team, errors nearly never happen at this level ignorance is bliss, as they say, say less no one foresaw a home run derby here given this is baseball, anything goes hold onto your hats for Games...