Poems

The hack of putting pen to paper in order to park a record of existence is a screwball comedy. It’s a nuisance and charms me. A happy red blister on the thumb of my face. I mean it’s an instance, like saying “I was here.”  Or more at “I am here.”  No probably less at that. The crack of writing is always an act. “I write less words than I hues to.” Always the yellow road is less cold with a bullet in my ink. My poems are pretty good when I have a nice transmission. I drive through the crack like a distance, scribbling little bruises into the median. Tiny little ears of ink settle upon each tissue of flimflam until there’s a whole book of em. I hack in order to park on an instant.  Sometimes even parallel, which is great fun and can often result in a haxident.