cclxv. my wit

there isn’t a thief good enough to crack his safe’s code, nor any elder old enough to even know a venus flytrap digesting a spell of words.

cclxiv. limewire

i am searching for the slickest of sounds. all that and a bag of rippled chips, a chocolate ass, chicken legs, and angelina jolie lips.

cclxiii. when in doubt, use duct-tape

and when in rome, check out the bulletproof pope mobile. now that’s faith in action. driving around in circles.

cclxii. lay it on the line

the greatest aphrodisiac is mystery.

cclxi. nowhere men

days have a way of turning into years. seasons grow a body of ocean between humans. friends become nearly strangers. and everyone is still here. not waiting.

cclx. you want a haiku?

i have a haiku for you, in the key of blue. not quite a captured kodak moment, oh no. far from profound, and it likes to break all kinds of rules, especially the ones of sound. do you still want a haiku?

cclix. unbeaten paths

hopefully, not too many of you wander this path: i enjoy writing with the computer as it comes out different. the slow hand that moves the pen is like switching rails. or being homeless.

cclviii. you mark your territory, too

i, of course, remember you leaving your sexwear on the bed, white undergarments and the rest, and that little drop of fluid, as if your scent could ever leave.

cclvii. -ire

desire. fire. sire. ire. tire. mire. expire. from the rhymes that have no minds inherent. incoherent.

cclvi. dry month

we’ve walked too far, march, sharp air clicking around us. the city is sleeping, march, and there are prayers to be said. we’ve walked far, march. the city is still sleeping, but we need to turn home.