It is indisputable that poets love roadkill...

You ask yourself, how can you be living but dead? It is not possible. Yet it can be and it can be slightly reversible, but realistically, for most people, it is not. Living but dead, is walking in the world of the in-between. Standing with one foot on the

Who hasn’t at some point of the day wanted to dredge up everything in your pocket just to see what it is.

Now your dreams are headed for the Rhyme or Reason Convention where they try to convince you you can do this Trying to make sense of everything

We are infused with fear and dread/ of the world we won’t engage/ except through flat screens and remotes,

Light slunk in from under a door, but just a sliver.

She realised that things you can't prove can be more intimate than the things you know to be true.

At the conference her boss showed off his knowledge of wines.

I heard the worm was interested in the fat robin’s song.

I hev my girls shave.

He said stuff like ‘Crikey that's a knife',” she said, “it was bad, really really bad.”

Written across an old geezer’s sweatshirt At the Farmer’s Market in L.A.

it was your hands—caked with years-old clay & quaking from too much solitude

Roy Williams was his real name. It had been for the last 15 years. Since retiring from the Firm he’d lived innocuously in an apartment near the Old City walls of Dubrovnik doing the occasional quick job for them. You never entirely retired from the Firm.