Dirt beneath my nails.
Sin blackens my soul. Choirs
sing redemption songs.
An online commonplace book
Dirt beneath my nails.
Sin blackens my soul. Choirs
sing redemption songs.
Late Saturday nights
sink old men’s eyelids while
the sermon hums on.
Enchanted eight bits
teleport plumber brothers
through Koopa’s warped worlds.
I’m not Lebron James
No lobbed dunks, or pull up j’s
Still, I hoop. I must.
Thirty six floors up,
forgotten hand-painted signs
vanish into brick.
Crimson tail lights blink.
Exhausted exhaust smoke. We’re
rushing to nowhere.
Graphite memories.
HB pencil, contour lines.
Loyal companion.
Hennepin Chinos
flat, fresh. Iron steam rises.
Monday doesn’t wait.
Five a.m. egg yolks.
Meat locker hooks, left jabs bring
tears for Adrian.