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i live in a house with two ladies and a chubby baby. cinta puts on a record and we have spontaneous dance parties with folsom, who laughs and laughs. we write lines of poetry on the walls in black and aquamarine and orange. blowing bubbles on the floor, biting boom boom's ribs until he is drunk on laughter. watching bad films and drinking good red ( Read more... )

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foetal in the hushed airport. facing the rain-scattered window, gazing at the melting of two images -- the juxtaposition of my human face against the mechanical aeroplane. i will sit in its belly in the sky, but for now i am here, reflecting upon it passively. trucks speed by and smear light against the tall windows. sometimes sallow headlights, ( Read more... )