the world is broken and bleeding and from a crack in the ground they come, an army of little red men wearing little black suits with little red ties, smoking and laughing, shaking hands, they scale the shear wall of my back with fish hooks and ephemeral ropes of hair, their cloven hooves leave little…

the paper read words bled black ink news the same shit everyday, smearing on your fingers the harsh reek of some ordinary nothing, burning nations and burning dollars and each and every a sore moment, a hangover, this, then, is that and this again is this, a waste of words and love and hate and…

i have become accustomed to a sharp pain in my jaw and in my neck that creeps in whenever i smoke and i know it is death or some idiot cousin of attempting to gain residency. my question is now where did these little words go, where have they gone on to that they are…