That burnt plastic taste ghosts the folded tongue, like kissing an electrical fire, like running the heater of my old Duster to keep it from overheating on some long ago summer of my former life. The dregs of hot black coffee ground cold, and I am scratching at my dry flesh with these cracked hands. Typing typos and sealing constellations as I go. Licking the rubble from cracked lips. Tasting the remainders, remaining tasteless and bitterly still.
More Blogs
-
0
chiming of the vendors
It is there in the playing out of the song, in the fade of the ligh… -
0
recess
There really is no alarm, no sharp end to this report. I sip a micr… -
0
invocation
This is how your letter finds me, as beaten and bowed as nature all… -
0
skyward
Weeds spill from the eaves and the puddles ripple concentric on the… -
0
hey day
Each day some half down arrival, each day a hapless waving goodbye,… -
0
garbage apostle
It’s not like the words were waiting, the sheen of rain, the fallin… -
0
ghost wiring
Comes to the lay of the day I declaim the decline smack in the coun… -
1
9 mile cigarette
There’s not much to do once the sinking sets in, once you feel the … -
0
snips, snails
The words circle, the words spin, the words become and begin. There… -
0
the prayer
deep down in the meat and marrow, you permeate the soup stock…