If not the gnat then the horsefly keeps the company at my side in the tall hours of the afternoon: one born of future’s fancy; one sprung...

i’m topsy-turvy or all sprawled out like somebody’s been hit upside the head by some proverbial brick hewn from leftover gloom or pressed...

Trip down memory lane where the steady step staggers nimble grace quakes atrophied and sluggish or simply swept off in the wake of time...

the old women’s summer seeps onto the city spilled honey waiting to be wiped away the dishrag night cold and clammy schemes from out...