rust
misstree
never
sleeps
010129
...
Lsoia
the
king
is
gone
but
he's
not
forgotten
010129
...
pilgrim
The
slowly
smoldering
iron
fire
.
010130
...
ovenbird
In
the
swift
tilt
of
the
afternoon
I
notice
a
tiny
orb
of
blood
gathering
on
the
knoll
of
my
knee
looking
for
a
chance
to
stain
everything
that
’s
clean
.
I
touch
my
finger
to
the
sting
of
broken
skin
and
it
comes
away
inky,
leaving
red
fingerprints
in
the
margins
of
my
journal
.
Later
I
press
flowers
,
making
mummies
of
their
sepals
while
Christine_Fellows
sings
,
her
voice
blending
with
the
ghost
story
warble
of
a
bowed
saw
and
the
sob
of
a
cello.
The
flowers
submit
slowly
to
stasis
.
My
body
builds
new
cells
from
the
inside
,
holding
back
the
capillary
flood
.
Music
moves
back
and
forth
between
vitality
and
corruption.
I
’ll
take
the
nick
of
a
rusty
razor
over
the
gutted
insides
of
apathy
any
day
.
Let
me
bleed
in
three
dimensions
before
I
can
fit
between
the
pages
of
a
book
no
one
will
ever
read
.
250901
what's it to you?
who
go
blather
from
