Like a California wildfire/Taking down acres of trees
your ankles are so swollen they’re like geological formations
You giver of fist-bumps, teller of jokes / but meaner of business who takes no shit
Seventh grade. Mr. T writes orgasm / instead of organism on the board.
I want to know where my food comes from but not where it’s been
mother’s feet are a road that leads to paradise
Darkness is self-created like fresh yeast.
acupuncturing percussionist / blunting us with synths
I subscribe to the notion that a poem should ask difficult questions, whether or not it can answer them.
I wish every darkness / unleashes you fearless