Tuesday: "My poetry is much more of who I am than any word sewage sure to come out of my figurative 'mouth' when I write this to you." Simon: "It doesn't matter. You make me break all my own rules."

I look at Darla’s body. Her chubby feet, unshaven shins, meaty thighs, the dark hairs peeking from the mesh holes of her panties, the little cave in her skin below her belly, and then the beginnings of a swell. A novel.

A poem about a dog with three legs.

in your heart, you are nothing in your hands, you are infinite.

My attempts to write the worst poetry I possibly can.