empty pockets deep as graves—
how low shall we go?
curled smoke straddles hushed cinders—
old nights rekindled
a still horizon—
tides’ constant glinting crashes
whisper at the stars
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faded white lines
writhe along crumbling mile roads—
a short, busy day
eyelids fight heavy night air—
victory is gold
trails of sweat coil rigid contours;
white summer javelins rain malice on furrowed brows—
it’s hot as hell in here,
but who turns their back on the flip of a gold coin?
I’d rather catch a glimpse of a glinting revolution
than watch my shadow sprawl flat on the numb blacktop
Travis was driving to Brahms
but a pit stop triggered alarms
the burning tumult
was caused by a cult
and an ill-fated visit from Mom.