The Advocate

Latest draft. Beware: it gets dark in my head. These are my digressions: the pseudo-pop psychobabble of 22 year-old hipster chicks persuading collar-popped bros to trade in those polos and yolos and lokos for PBR mustachioed fixie apropo cutoff jorts made DIY for $88.99 at the cookie-cutter knock-off conveniently located 'round the corner from their gentrified ghetto-fab $4,000 per month apartment, complete with homeless cranks passed-out beneath window-barred taquerias serving those highwasted fashionistas (and their exposed underbuttcheeks) because this is cultural appropriation faster than you can say "National Geographic" These are my digressions: the flowetry of Jared Washington who the prison warden calls Tyrone Farraconvict he missed a stop & frisk but not the DWB down International Blvd so now he's got a nickel that turned into a dime for possession of long since legalized Mary Jane while Mr. Corporate So&So's bleach blonde spawn pleads affluenza f

(Credit: Zdzislaw Beksinski, Untitled, 1994) Slowly, very slowly, working on my 3rd book. Another collection of poetry that has somehow shoved my novella to the back of the queue. Here's a small, not-final-draft piece: fear shapes thought like whetstones sharpen knives and bars paint prisons and the edge of a cliff beckons as if it were a lover’s whispered gesture irrationally as dreaming it begins with a small pebble of anxiety cragged as an old face then lovingly polished to a fine smooth rounded goose-flesh-down dread and how that uncertainty creates a certainty of what i am worrying will happen as if reality were nightmare's despondent whim how powerless i am in my terror the irony is palpable that i can put pretzels to shame with the twists but not so strong as metal more like a spider's gossamer and just as creeping across my face i suspect with a bondsman’s surety cashing in my doubt like the zealotry believes with such despair as only lost hope could ever know