Music is the most mortal art form. A song dies and resurrects over and over in the thin cyan air. Poetry lives forever. My poems are drinking wine in a stranger’s cellar, making love with the darkness while the sprouting potatoes watch. Art is the mess on the back of the wall when I blow my mind out with a 22. So many colors. A cornucopia of textures and scents. The best art smells faintly of freedom.
Day: May 1, 2026
Letter K
K is the wettest letter, black with red polka dots and wearing her sick yellow rain slicker. K dances the Charleston, and she pop,lock, and dropped it on my front yard with her pet penguin. K is a rose bush hugger – a brutal job, but she’s sharp enough to puncture back if she wants. Roses know she’s coming when they smell strawberry soda and old makeup. K will never lie to you – but she might omit a few key details. When is the end of the universe? She knows, but for your sake she won’t tell you.
Miniature Moon 