Franz Ferdinand brew.
Milk, burnt toast, with ham slices
quells morning hunger.
Category: Poems
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Truffaut’s acolyte.
Stop motion bottle rocket.
Lone visionary.
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Sweet Bluetooth speakers,
suffer sound wave cavities
leaves us in silence.
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Dirt beneath my nails.
Sin blackens my soul. Choirs
sing redemption songs.
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Late Saturday nights
sink old men’s eyelids while
the sermon hums on.
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Enchanted eight bits
teleport plumber brothers
through Koopa’s warped worlds.
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I’m not Lebron James
No lobbed dunks, or pull up j’s
Still, I hoop. I must.
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Thirty six floors up,
forgotten hand-painted signs
vanish into brick.
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Crimson tail lights blink.
Exhausted exhaust smoke. We’re
rushing to nowhere.
Floodlights and Goalposts 