ichor raze i thought i was late. i was early. the grass i came to know so well before winter waged war on its battered blades bent itself into an intersection. and though i couldn't drive in the dream any more than i could keep myself from getting killed behind the wheel in my waking life, i found a way to get that beater off the road. i trusted my legs to guide my car to the gravel shoulder, feet feeling their way through the open air. on the way home, a bird too tall and too beige to be any kind of ally stood on the roof of an old stone building. a church abandoned by god and all who dared to breathe his name. the winged thing filled its mouth with what it killed before my eyes founds its face and took flight. i told it to stay away from my house. as if it could hear me. as if it cared. after wriggling free from the cold arms of insufficient sleep, i saw splotches of red in the spot some small soul stood while i washed morning's spit from my fingers. not blood. paint. the same pigment that pumps through your veins and mine, reminding us our truest art is in our lives. 230202 what's it to you? who go blather from