[As I face day four of the ten-day sprint of sustained creative effort between now and the start of summer camp, I am forced to ask myself why I find solace from creativity on this blog. Why do I keep running here to avoid my responsibilities?]
Cats wreck thatch.
Claws rasp 'till they're
cut, rough tools.
[I like thinking about where we make sounds in our mouths. I like thinking about the sounds in this poem move forward in the mouth like they're being pushed from behind. I like thinking about how this poem would be ruined for non-rhotic extremists. It would be ruined for Jonathan Ross.]
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I will make you cry tears of blood. Get ready to be depressed.
Dance in the Full Moon
O, the Frailty of Memory
Pride Goeth Before a Fall
Hindsight
My Serial Mistakes
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