I know nothing of before, I have one memory of toddlerhood, a little yellow plastic chair, a second story window. A field shaped by a tar chip road. All I can do now, is recognize beauty. I don’t have money. I find great transcendence in leaving zero trace. When I die, I hope they lose my stone and mix up the dates. No. But I think of oblivion, and only live by the grace of words, people, the cat in the alley. I am so entirely terrified by periods between poems. I dream about vows of silence. I pray for a trickling trout stream. Each life is recorded in time space, you know, or not, I wish, but it’s gotta mean something. Right? If I…



Poet; Quadriplegic; Rust Belt; Zen; Zazen; Pop Culture;

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