I am going into some Freelance Work to help fund some of my personal projects. I have a few small gigs lined up in screenwriting. Please email me at firstname.lastname@example.org if you have any tips or leads for me or if you yourself have some gigs you need some help in.
Outside the Nowheresville Church, moments after the resurrection, a baby cries and an elderly man laughs at the cracks in the sidewalk.
Outside the Nowheresville Church, moments after the streetlamps kicked on, an eerie quiet fills the air, soft but as thick and heavy as liquified concrete. A cricket chimes in on the state of things and a birds barks “fuck off,” in explicit harmony, never quite understanding a symphony, never quite having ever heard one before.
Outside the Nowheresville Church, moments after this week’s slew of confessions, the eager whores line up with their business cards ready in hand to network their craft and their art to those freshly cleansed souls. I relearn how to tie my shoes while humming the National Anthem, the holy Star Spangled Banner, in reverse with an insatiable thirst for bubblegum or maybe something a little stronger and reminiscent of a mud puddle during a lengthy drought in mid-July. But where are the fireworks? In someone’s figurative eyes, I suppose.
I watch the grape vine as she counts the freckles on a toad. forty-seven in aimless renegade working-class reality. all quiet, all tired. I bruise easy and drink too much, but not wine. the devil doesn’t care much for the toad, or its freckles. spitting into the sun, she writes herself out of this poem.
A barren wall speaking in tongues
on which a coffee bean smokes
a translucent cigarette in picture-
frame Carolina, green moss
shaking under the pressure of misting
hardwood, vacationing hoaxes of paper.
Bearded disguise in sheriff’s-badge
soft rain, refilling bird feeding machine
with fire hydrant monotony.
I sat nothing about the bees in the cinema.
A dark crucifix of tangerine dreams,
the man without a gun pretending
that he doesn’t have one and
the woman at the counter is too
busy comparing the craters that are
the moon to the face of someone
who worships the sun instead of life.
The moth who does not exist doesn’t watch
the wristwatch slurring
at the pedestrians who witness the spectacle.
I say nothing about the lines in the street,
a trapeze artist learns to spell
under a broken window. children leaning
on and in
trees. no tears, only run.