shirts raze there's this green shirt, somewhere between bright and dull, closer to bright if it had to pick a side, short-sleeved, loose-fitting. the back is shredded from sliding down the wall before the sloping stairs. there's a stain in the part covering the abdomen that's never explained itself. it's not something you'd want to wear anyplace people would be, but it fits like an old friend. it's a shirt for sunday night listening to someone on the block setting off firecrackers if i ever had one. 140518 ... raze the ones that don't fit anymore and never will fit again become things to knock dust off of shelves and other flat surfaces so the dust can swirl around invisible in low light waiting to return in increments to the home it was forced to leave, the homes, the plural places, except for the dust that hangs around and turns white to grey and red to grey and everything to grey, which is set free through the very delicate process of whipping the shirt it clings to against an outside wall as hard as possible. 141210 what's it to you? who go blather from