The Little Picture

We’ve already skipped the first step, wherever we start. Besides, the spoon never tastes the soup anyway. Sure, there’s meaning in a jet way up, but down in the ditch the air is sliced other ways. The ones today who kill or love are history already from the air, from the future. Yes, life’s unreason … More The Little Picture

Each Fine Morning

Always the world is going to hell; most of the time, it’s already there. It’s up to where you’re standing. Cataclysms coming, cataclysms gone, the scars on mind and skin, yet hardly a dint in the air on each fine morning. It’s parable, the sun- rise. It’s inevit- able. It’s arriving.