fallen trees. orange cones. paved streets. i feel superior to progress shown openly.
hold concrete beliefs in imperfect teeth, but that doesn’t stop daily whitening.
writing isn’t hesitation, discouragement, or deceit. expression is defeat when the wariness repeats.
stuff these in a loop: no rhythm, old pleas, rough texture, risk-free, whimsy, and cheap.
flip the record. if we were to get together and you spoke pristine letters, i’d withdraw my effort.
i chase stormy weather, yet i borrow social standards from a lender at a rate that sends a repo for my fender.
battling the pleasure of illusions and their buried treasure for organic roots to sustain a cold December.
tundras aren’t seasonal, they’re regional tremors. my survival heeds an amputation of what’s festered.
– D K T
