Day Eight
Yesterday twenty daffodils were murdered,
scythed down in their prime and left to wilt.
I think a heartsick gardener, on a spring walk,
had thought fuck this. My heart can't contain
this rage and my soul can't stand
a gleeful thing for one more moment.
And who's to say that's not gardening?
After all, life is just feeding then cutting at stuff.
Paint Poem
Day Thirty I like a poem because it's not like a painting. Because I'll confidently cradle something stainless; hold the exceptio...
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Day Nineteen In our village by the mountain, there lived A man p eople called The Wrestler , It was long ago, when my dad was a kid. He - ... -
Day Thirty I like a poem because it's not like a painting. Because I'll confidently cradle something stainless; hold the exceptio... -
Day Twenty Fantastic style designs on pottery from Hacilar. Image from Yakar 2005. The ancients believed That culture was Construed by pot...
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