Hour Seventeen I am convinced flies have genetic memory to the swatter- dashing through the air landing upon naked skin crawling a constant hum of buzzing afflicting my quiet. I pick up the swatter and the nerve-grinding melody ceases. I scan the room and cajole…

Hour Sixteen Sequestered away in fear like a deer in the headlights, wide-eyed at the atrocities of human nature. I once wore a misanthropic hat lined with burs of Burdock that clung to the scalp ripping out my hair in chunks. My experience with humankind…

Hour Fifteen 11:11 I once had a friend named Bitterness whose caustic nature ate away at the very core of my being. Memories, a swampland I slogged through with years of mud caked to the tattered soul at my feet while Bitterness urged me toward…

Hour Fourteen (The Other Side of the Coin) They pay it forward and press upon the smalls of backs urging one to continue- they hush the noise of conflict and like lampposts, guide the way with experience latched to their backs and wisdom tucked into…

Hour Twelve Pause and reflect for cause and effect. They ask me to wait as I watch the hands of a clock hold time more than I have been- no rush, just wait biding my time in the midst of rhyme They tell me, “Wait.”…

Hour Ten Kyrielle form Will you still say you love me when the fall of age when it begins and when my waist is out of place upon my features will you trace The outline of my eyes that look like jeweled sunflowers pressed in…

Hour Eight The devil nestles underneath car door handles flooding lungs and invading the bloodstream of society. The drivers fein placation with promises of Pleasure Island. Nostrils extend in deeply croaking breaths heavy-handed and grappling protests are caught in the throat as a scurry of…

Hour Five Memories tucked into my breast pocket left and close to my heart. They flutter like eyelids just waking from slumber- fractured images play upon the screen of thought a tribute to remembrance to lives previously lived during my years on the back roads….

Hour Four Outlining plans with graphite tracing the intent- gradients of charcoal delineate from our preconceived form an insult to our potential. Our attempts to take over and mold over the wire mesh construction- half-hearted clay structure unassuming to the crack from the heat of…

The birds have gone to sleep There is no moon to behold I hear a distant sound of a dog barking And the sudden rush of a car passing by In case you’re wondering where I’m at In Malaysia my lovelies where dusk has arrived…