prose for gamblers
Prod poke probe pick at the skin on my back, hands, face and anything else I can touch.
cow-down to the masses
Ratter erato berato piano greeting virago mirage a shoo cackle call grottos
Split solitaire prose poem
I feel a draft — slaps brain around — like a shredder cut-up zipbag scissors…
Cuss cuss cross crucify me over the burning bridge lock down into a poling loping…
Nearly died