There are two elements: The voice and the wilderness of Ocean — both thoroughly defined though one, more wholly — a conch, one blowhole Through which sound dismantles. The other a bellow, of no fathomable difference to the multitude of an ocean, teeming with...
there is a sun behind you as hollow as the sound from within your claims to the land it sets on kranti weeps not within the inward-tar outward-star me thrown ad nauseum crunched on crystallizing bone on padlocked seats in the sky...
I am tremendous fun at dinner parties I say this as a joke but it’s true, I talk and hardly pause for breath, a ticking metronome of story punchline setup story and only rest a moment for laughter, a lull like a singer riding the backphrase still knowing when the...
When they decided to kill the priest it was winter and they wanted it slow. They led him out barefoot to a steaming pot, and had us each take turns dipping an enormous ladle, black from other hands. The priest’s skin went soft white like wax, freezing too fast for...
i sometimes think that everything that has ever happened to me is raining somewhere else. i sometimes think that the water has found a path through high trees, worked its way inside another room, so the damp next door is spreading, curving an unknown ceiling into a...
-Savage! You read my poems and tore the pages. -… Mute Ir-rational a Chinese poem played on the speakers. Black dirty pots on the hob. No defense. He read the poems. It’s fine. Now he prepares filter coffee in a dirty machine. His friend pointed it out. It’s ok, I...
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