I guess I could discuss phantoms and pharaohsand the places in between them,or rhyme schemes and what is palatable.
it’s been weeksof perpetual reflection.I’ve been told I run miles, countries worth.but my allergists saysasthma and mentholsgifted me the lungsof a sixty-one year old.
these new god-forsaken questionsnascent from distant textbooks,fodder for all my sprints,growing in all these springs.
why do emperors eat dirt,why do poets bathe in it?is there an ethical wayto eat a banana?are cave paintings blogs?how can you lie to millions?why can you lie to yourself?
middle school and an army of teachersmarch across my spinal cord.they had hoped to prepare mefor this moment in historywith lessons in monkey-bar bullying,and glorified despots.
a ghostly gash all that remainsI’m afraid it’s too early to know ask Faulknerif i’m just being honest,the present doesn’t know shit

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