Somewhere someone plansa spring offensivesomewhere someone youngwill diethe old will be bledand babies force marchedthrough a warmer gentlerApril Where bombs will concussbullets bloomand snipers shape shift withsudden green shoots and headlines will

When The Weekly Planner Begins To Corrupt

So, Saturdayhaving lost its identity-say, for me, week three-then Monday gave up the ghostthat day after EasterAnd with Sunday succumbingto becoming just another 24-makes tomorrow Tuesday orThursday, or a maybe this or

Tread A Measure

this pirouette with a pestilencethis bop with the blightin tempo lightly scoredby a guiding light refrainof recurrent disaster capital promenade all PPEto times nine of market value mist and frisk and dismissventilators

I Got Them Fake Blues, Absolutely

Headlines have made me a head caseNewscast are dispatching the mopesa dose of morose and dolefulnessand analytics are erasing all hopes But the powers that be assure methat my jitters don’t jibe

1 2 3 30