poems and loems and bloems and hoems

If it rhymes, it's on times. If it's great, celebrate.


the last day of September saw me in my apartment looking at my shoes

I ate a cucumber
and
dreamed of
its children

coming for me
with tiny

eyes;

the last of us dogged
old
sons can

get along okay

if we remember our ceilings cave
in only when we want
them
to

and the abstract of the color red
across a female's
lips is
simply a hand across a thigh.