cuz he walked around everywhere with a thumz up
But there it’s been sunk in my gut
the fates have spoken / so that’s all
you try not looking despite your curiosity
It’s just a matter / of how many layers / of “me” you release
the more you wait / the more you drown in time // so just smile
Ouch / oo / eh / Oww
This writing is less the craft heavy and prosody poised work that keeps process hidden behind closed doors of the poet’s writing studio and their intellectual hesitance, and more the freestyle, live over home-made beats push for moments of flow.
It was high time / I got out of there
For this group of Overhead Projector Poem-ing poems I decided I would take my fancy projector to the Wick Poetry Center.
Then it drops down a vertical line? Why, Dan? Why?
Either it is a face or it is a cloud. Or maybe it’s a little bit of both.
To view a single letter as a thing unto itself.
Our time speaks, as every time does, its very own language. It speaks foremost, even when writing and writing a great deal. The contemporary person wants to understand passion and have it understood, and many people—
I start to feel that I am not a part of a line of action, a progression of disruptive movement causing a disturbance in air particles which domino all the way to their disruption of my ears but that somewhere in the middle ground…
Ich bin kommisch
words are not numbers
naked boy outside Jerusalem