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.
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Day Twenty-Nine Seems like you were always leaving Or left. Leaving with Your roaring engine voice. Left in the split Of your fire-crack...
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Day Twenty Fantastic style designs on pottery from Hacilar. Image from Yakar 2005. The ancients believed That culture was Construed by pot... -
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 - ...
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