lemon drop

believing I have good ideas, how grand

even great

imagine it there

a face you can forget of course

black cat has crossed my path


come down the metallic ledge

wait in vain

red thread in a sunburnt palm

damn cat damn sam

ego of a man

it was nice for a while

concrete trumpets

singing in lines

imagination tall

leaning on telephone crosses

evergreen beats and two pinkiless hands

strike the stars

d’amico metropolis made of three green lights

strap the back, no weight

freight lines grappling

woven pavement stone

real estate open

little crushed scorpion

(was only a sock)

playin drums

drum drum duh drums

give you my gentle fingers

sprawling out

white slippers to try

without numbers

journal excerpt: 28 april

salt, salt, salt & bulbs of blooming anxiety lit from the fingertips, circling the arteries, igniting the brain. trichotillomania, the trick that i’ve played. no ideas, the ocean drives me electric mad as a rabid dog, a bad dog, a dog spazzing up on fourth of july’s eve. to feel the sun, an underrated heavenly bitch born for life and murder, smiling down on us sardines dressed in seal costumes playing, soon to be consumed. i knew it, and the water reflected azure. a wave a million molecules, spitting out ice. a hushed crunch between my teeth wanting no sand. a thread of dark heads bobbing, all facing ocean. what are they waiting for? slit eyes beneath the sun, all in search for one precise moment of parallel times — the mind time, the earth time. deceivingly metric intuition — some call it coincidence, some call it masterpiece. (master the movement’s pieces.) congruent fingers meet & merge in perfect form, leaving no escape for scintillas of sand. but somehow, a few grains find gravity.