Kissoon's Loop

Beneath the cracking concrete flats, The Earth is (still) there. In the low hum of winter: Grass, upspringing (still) from ruptured capil...

And I sit here, asking myself-- What must it be like, to come from money? Who might I be if not for my struggles, my grief? What might I hav...

Every deletion, each small, cold-controlled backwards push: a minute death,  a sinking further inwards. I have done it again ; ...

It is Now that I pontificate upon the totality of Forever-- its clutches settling slowly into the corded nape of my neck, seeping into th...

Seventy-five, stoned, on the Sunday-night highway. Bright Eyes and Quasi-sentimental taillights, trailing... Go west, go west. You have...

Death stares out from inside of me. My eyes are black beams; heat- and life-seeking missiles. I am the grim reaper. And the Dark Window...

I cut the tree, limb from limb and I think about the line (is there a line?) between life and death. I strip one of the large limbs of its b...