coffee fromthat placesmells likeburnt eggs& tasteslike some-one spilledsunlightinto anoil pan

crossing missouri in three hours viainterstate 70 fromthe driver’s seatis a blurred ribbonof steel & asphaltslicing betweenmeth & reality

one monthof postingthese scribbles& notes inthe ether &all I have toshow for itis a few extrastray electrons

microwave eggsdon’t taste likepowdered eggswhich is goodI guess becausewhy would youwant to eathot powder?

summer breeze:skin sweats beneathmosquito hover

go with the clichéfor father’s day:grill, tie, blood test

the corpseis alwaysthe life ofthe partyat a funeral