vault/
Good Evening… in my best Alfred Hitchcock voice… And with my apologies. The Vault is password protected; Its work is not yet ready for the world at large.
starwells
slep in starwells
slep undr carnivaltrucks
gonwitout
slep in parkinlots cornr
darkgreengarbagebags
8 month ol ry bred
dogfood wetdry
insecs bigmacs
worblankets
nbredbags
spare a dime
show me yr change
all show u mine
A poem I wrote a VERY long time ago about what it was like being homeless in the ’70s. Published in dyst Literary Journal #7, October 2021.
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The Hateful Man
Let each hate, and ours for his,
Be scraped away. Hopefully
He cared for some—At least the few
That may have cared for him.
Allow unchanged what good remains.
At length, with love or hate or both, we go.
Some will, with time, one hopes, have learned.
It is not that the dead are dead
It is not that the dead are dead, however having seen the lie in it: We live. If not for the dying of the dead, I don’t know, we may have missed the death in it: We live. We are not the dead, that is to say, having seen the lie instead, there it is: We live. It is not that the dead are not dead nor that the dead are not dying: We live. We have not died, that is to say, the dead do not know and have not seen the lie that is or is not there: We live. And having seen and played both sides of it, that is to say the lie of it, we have never died and never will. WE LIVE!