a choir of curbside preachers echoes in the space between the brain and the forbidden. a vacancy of decency, backlit by a steel flashlight on dim. batteries corroded.

I see the thought complete before the syllable is molded. twists and turns of inked vocabulary, letting the expressive express…or at least he thinks so.

here.

hear.

An ancient proverbial distillation process of what I can only wish upon what I want upon.

sing my pastor, sing in french accents and bantering hierarchies until the day ending trumpet signals a new indecent thought for me to dwell on.