lunarhand left
tugshove the hurt
make things alright again

you are
furthest
from the

lightwomb,

but skinlit kisses
still whisper
ghostfuls of

yes

into your
crowded head.

anyone know anyone
in san fran area
that could spare a room
for a nite (or two)
for a homeless poet?

will
work
for
words.

im a rolling pebble
kicked down  
the road's shoulder

the hurt
is alive
and my eyes
are opening

there is no such thing
as home anymore
i know
that much

at a cafe
people, like me,
in transit.

the inbetween
slivers

my
molecules,

opening the space to face
caught thoughts.

i am spiraling.
i am not well.
an early exit is calling me.

i guess i can do
a blue sky.
but i like mine

grey and
splayed out,
sleepily burnished -
yuh know,
that something that
brings out

monochrome feral tones,

with a few
exposed
crevices
every now and then

to polish
me off
good.