blig blag blog. This a blog. Or a diffracting prism of the processional musings and swings that constitute my being.

poem: 

The peaks are whipped

Up by dabbling fingers of small planets

That commend us to climb.

Try speaking over 

The gurgling enzymes

With a tongue coated 

In a limey brine

Clang of bell in boiling sea

Resin of the accomplished watch

Guides along the elk of tomorrow

The sun crosses the horizon on a new axis

Held by some but not all

Rusted aluminum washboards rest in our bellies

Unused until whenever

Grated street and greater leaves meet

In the gutter that utters a wasting tune

That is sort of true

Of winding branches and plastic bags 

Grinding, sighing, and belying 

A fickle current of the forgotten

That rots and sets

With every fidgeting clock

Juxtaposed under familiar widgets

That knock the sounds of rocks

Tumbling diagonally to a darker alleyway

Into the lap of a stray man

Contemplating his agony

The ocean howls 

Down the closed corridor of brick

And mortar

Licking and lapping

The knobbled cobblestone

With a slow leather clapping

And tapping at the heart

Of a dusty man

Crouched in the shadow of a locked dumpster

Slowly losing its countenance

In the failing streetlight

As the almost man flickers

When the wave rumbles up the drain

He only snickers in its refrain

Sitting in his knickers

Coiling through his fingers

And hair

A hat of wicker

Which he made

For his sister

In Baltimore