Pressed to the lens, I reply: When I am blue, I am the sweetness of the sky spread over toast. My tongue is a clarinet and my heart is a sieve. I am delicious and sad. When I am green, I lie on the bottom… Read More
Some toast is better charred, That factory bread, Unedified, white-washed, Grains rolled smooth as asphalt, With nothing left to burn But cynicism.
A discomfited duck, His speckled brown feathers And emerald head Bereft of ambition, Wades through Puddles of people And pools of plastic, Pecking at the Cigarette butts Left behind.
devices left to their own devices devise, de-viced of their innards and dumb to their virtues