uninspired midnight breeze
slowly pushes a purchase hollow,
black

plastic shopping bag with
one torn handle up the sidewalk
into

an unsuspecting parking meter.

the refrigerator ( Read more... )

buildings

shadow hug
the street,
brick rigid.

snow huddles
in iced piles

on medians,
and trees

flaunt arboreal
bones, branched

out

frail dying
flail, combing

astral dandruff
from hair

sky.

she is plural: she looks nice. you have kissed her a lot of times. you have seen her perfect naked body and its line-curved shadow fallen with clothing across several floors. she has seen your naked body. her nipples are light pink or light orange or light bronze. you've driven, at night, past the location of your first date and felt like a nail- ( Read more... )

allow me to set the scene: it is 2009. the last time you ate a pop tart was 1995. it was cherry flavored with frosting and multi-colored sprinkles. you were at your neighbors house. you remember this because your mother would never buy pop tarts. she wouldn't buy pop tarts or soda or cereals without the words "flake" or "bran" in their name. the ( Read more... )

i want to be with you again, like when you looked at me on my bed, worried that i would be angry at you.

you might find yourself unexpectedly and ( Read more... )

an enamored plastic reindeer ( Read more... )

the grass is always leaner ( Read more... )

drunk

in weaving
motion as the full

street's physique
wears you and

its congregation
calmly,

as a
constant and urgent,

living
civic decoration.