it was paris and it was 1948.

i'm pretty sure it was 1948.
i had been walking, my shoes were heavy
and wet. my head too, my eyes. drinking too much.
it rained, then it stopped, rained again.
i heard a church bell not far off.
i was drunk and hungry for food or love.
thoroughly soaked, i walked bare-headed
in the parisian rain. it seemed a writerly
thing to do. plus yeah, drunk.
i was halfway across the courtyard at
the backside of the Louvre when i
saw her. she was standing outside of a closed
cafe, waiting out the rain, and wearing one of
those fancy dresses that was considered high
fashion at the time - Dior, i think- with a
little ruffle puff where the ass should be,
giving the young woman a sort of peacockish
but elegant air.
"dibs," i whispered noiselessly to no one
as i shuffled passed.

"diiiiiiiiiiiiibs."

hurricane

i run circles

in the wet grass, howling,
precisely because
you are
like
the moon

having never been to prison,

he described his own particular brand
of existential grief as, "kind of
like pac-man but you don't get to
chase the ghosts"

god show me

a UFO and
i will
always
love you

i don't hunt.

not that i don't want to.
i've seen 'surviving the game.' fucking ice-t.

i don't hunt. not that i wouldn't want to.
if you have guns and read this, holla.

i don't hunt. not that i wouldn't want to.
i mean, tommy's in my living room and

i don't hunt. not that i wouldn't eventually want to.
i do like guns. but i don't eat meat.
so shit would be purely symbolic or

i don't hunt. not more than anyone else does.