Thursday, June 30, 2011


His eyes are blue as salt.
The rest is toasted silk.
His voice is waved like soap.
The tank.

So, you're teaching a writing class.

Yeah, you should take it.


Stack it up.

When fascinating folk safely my senior listen to me with their whole face, I feel grateful. I feel the unholy holy string of lights flash like a dragon on water from here to San Francisco. Bloody. Caked.

Skin & Toast & Hats

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