there is poetry in the order of things
the infinite particles
our invisible strings
pulling always
and never
suspended on steel
screaming toward brutality
where
the garden was
a bud in hand
to plant one was to bloom a smile
mine
grew love
A note to an aspiring designer.
A thought experiment on the importance and meaning of process.
i blacked out
the night was drenched
in spoiled, oaked, grain
i sipped it dry and forgot it had rained
my memories
drained
betray me
they make me up and crack me