Tryouts
It feels weird to imagine that I’m doing this wave of writing, where I work on a piece, post it, then I make it dormant. I feel like that session player trying to come in on a free form jazz group, I want to catch their groove, I try a few licks, strum a few notes (my music analogies are maybe one notch better than my sports metaphors) but I know that’s not quite it.
Poem #4
Zero Five There is rust on my blade maybe blood? I still taste you in my steel thoughts remember your fingers wet from cunt fool from liquor full of ego -duel- short. dead by sunrise meat and fools left on a winding hill in my wake. I’m back bitches. None of you are ready for this.