My name is like oatmeal.
Phonies
Music is mostly colorless
When I was 14
I write about drinking a lot
Because I feel that the burn
And you might think you’ll outrun it.
Each leg spindly thin
But with flat footed assuredness
It pursues.
Each dull thud
The words you mumble
Into the softest crook of my neck
Is the sweetest language
I know.
A recent conversation on Facebook made me think about a truth I had arrived at but don’t…
Night of the Living Dead is Strange.
They tend to linger.
“ I like the way you write.”
Or drinking and cellphone blogging.