the railroad line returns bridges to steel, chapels and tombstones melting easy with morning safe beneath a windmill the dodo eats scrounged berries, quiet, half expecting the lights to cut at any moment, hoping for glycerol to fall wet from the sky purely for utility, sweet, sour plums, liar, liar.

Spontaneous Human Combustion

To tell the story of the nice-guy is to tell a tale of unlost innocence. There is no complexity that circumstance can’t remedy. There is no effort to niceness; only a virgin world that blossoms on genetically mutated ideology, growing larger than generations past. Tomorrow, in Houston, a butcher will wake up to slaughter aContinue reading “Spontaneous Human Combustion”