Sep 2012
Norm sits in his honda. He has whisky breath so ***** he feels it change the color of his teeth as he breathes. His voice has become all gravel from a circus pipe-dream about how he'll leave here one day. He feels it like rusty train tracks tracing his bones. It itches his joints, the rusting. He starts the ignition and heads home.
The idea with this series is that the poems are supposed to eventually come together to form a bigger picture, define something as a collective. It is ambitious, and it is also not planned out, so my hopes for it is minimal. Norman is my favorite name.
