Sock lost forever.

Having no words.
Laying down.
Decent.
Scattered.
In absurdness.
The best way.
Leaning over.
Sleep after.
Canadian jade.
Suspense.
With everything else to say.


Garrett Johnson.

The Fall.

Trees out my window.
So barren and chipper.
As if I could almost taste the death.
Taste their eyes on my person.
Their wraithing edges.
Their aging systems welcoming like *****.
Splatters.
Across all fronts.
To conjure the oh so sweet milk of air.
The dusty platitude of forgiveness.
Sight the faces so smug.
So lucrative.
So tiny.
As the weaving sits bined.
And the yellowness unwindes.
Trees out my window stand gladly.


Garrett Johnson.