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I, the boink, trill as I bounce down the street Ignoring all else, I move at my own beat The boink is not a walker, I have no feet The drum of my step is none but a  bleat
PLASMA   I donate my plasma a lot these days because it makes me think of you. You thought it was silly how I pass out at the sight of blood
She pens her whispers into hushed handwriting. shouts her fears, thoughts, angers into the cold clean air.   slinks through every inhalation that passes,
This poem is new
I saw you lying prostrate in your bed of bones and crumbs
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