Wind, don’t speak my name, no squash blossom thunder, no snap bottom rain. I ask but a breath on dry tinder, if just for a moment, tender as velveteen fumes…

Stay outta the business. Shine. Quarters on corners and barbershops shine. From one to a son gone clean outta Coney, From one to a son this is yours. Just the…

Stars don’t look hard on the ground, careless as a sesame seed garnish on a plate of hog gristle and fork spun intestine with bang bang sauce. Fuck this noise.…

Some days smell like years like the dinge of sprung sheetrock when the rain came in the cricket loose against the chimney and the attic floorboards expand with the frosts…

Longer rivers run to the sound where the commerce plays out its jangling game. When once we were mountains, no more than bare bluffs now, each jutting a finger of…