there is a delicate, impeccable, in between of nothing and birth

be content with soup
contend w/ soup
can't end with soap
can't eat a stoop
what's the scoop
loopdy loop

bellows in the belly
of sky
pulling out
thunder,
filled with
light n ing

Cold on my neck
I like feeling
The caw, the
Buzz in the heater
Still buzzing

I wondered when they'd call me sir,
Now almost 30, always almost 30,
I wonder if they'll ever stop

the thought of my grandmother's house becoming a memory
fondly fading
deteriorating
fall leaves always fall

political correctness and affectedness
overtly appeal to the need to appeal to
everyone who thinks they aren't everyone, but
truthfully, are a worse form everyone,
yelling yawningly boring lines about
raw fruit and other metaphors, published in the New
Yorker