Poems from joewallaby
Soft, now,
when zippers awaken me
amidst waning fluorescence
into five AM hotel haze
backseat baggage claim
I ask,
is it a question of...
A friend told me once of l’appel du vide:
a phenomenon in which
a perfectly sane man
can stand on the edge
of a cliff--
and want to jump...
Mischa Maisky is plotting my demise,
his Solomonic locks mocking me,
raindrops on his suit coat.
Is that the Sistine Chapel I see?
Or...