Binge Inker

I listen to Chopin and pass out under a Jackson Pollock and dream about writing. I am cultivating something in this room, but I cannot say or know what.

31.5.06

m

On rain drenched days I march through overgrown fields and kick the faces off of weeds, like tulips and roses and forget-me-nots, in my Army fatigues, recommitting them to the ground until my horizon is reduced to a tatter of bleeding bulbs and dampered leaves, that lay broken in every direction

Website Counter