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  • August 2006
    M T W T F S S
    « Jul   Sep »
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Never close to death and further from life
Looking over the shoulder to copy answers
Orbiting dance floors like an irregular comet
The spit at the bottom of a beer glass
A collector of dead men drinking dregs
The photograph you burn was borrowed
The romance you had was second hand
Puking up Shakespeare because it was too rich to stomach
Fencing with chopsticks to pick up Basho
Who you choke on between mouthfuls of the always chosen special
How special is special when you always have the special?
You have a pulse – in your salad


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