My son brings me a scorpion… I am tempted to stop there as it is true, fascinating and white knuckle. He brings it to me and asks about how it stings you and wonders about its size and relative effectiveness (at causing death or illness). As we live west of Chicago there are no scorpions here, and especially these deadly ones that he brings me which is suspended in acrylic.
There may be some live readings of my poetry, performed by me, coming up. We shall see. I will film it and post that if any of these happens.
dying roses are not broken promises
literal or not
we bled on pages
and pages and
pages of uncertain poetry.
women bleed with efficiency.
dying roses are not
broken promises as
are crumbling petals
no longer red.
– Hoc Scripsi
maybe later I’ll have more to say, now I only have this poem and a cup of coffee and the few comments above.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 