in 2008, i found myself

in a disgustingly sterile,

non-rustic library in:

Jackson Heights Queens.

think a toolshed meeting a

hospital.

on an exceedingly poignant

whim, i cracked open a glossy edition

of: Rolling Stone.

encountering an article on the passing

of the late great: David Foster Wallace.

i tore out the article, & shoved it in my

pocket for a deeper read.

poppies smatter

their color, on

the emerald of

any risen city.

Kurt Donald Cobain's

hair, is still being

combed by a perfect

audience.

the Greek translation

of: Worry, is a narrow

field.

worth wearing black

for husbandry--

leaving an umbrella

to absorb rain in its

place of holding.