it tastes of dust and is sedimentary, tiny flecks of questionable matter rotating slowly in the small current of the glass container, the walls stained with thin soap residue recalling a more primitive version of self, water in thin supply but the cigarettes grow like vines and smoke rings revolve around the ceiling fan like…

is this a casualty or product of windswept war, mixing the good thoughts with the bad and drinking them even and impartial at six a.m. on a thursday morning, scrawling algorithms on the bare walls of the mind, carbonizing strange nodes of fear with thoughts like flame and words like iron, a slow burn of…

blur corridor, i got a sense of direction that’s wrong, all wrong this life’s moral compass spinning like a mad clock in the grips of a speed fit, dead friends back to life shake their heads disapprovingly and the past is present again in wine bottles and cardboard containers, ashtrays in variable forms and the…