when i was thirteen, i stood at the base of a wooden tongue, night, no rain, and watched as lightning plowed its fingers into the ocean, sand, touched down, and i felt the world drop away, maybe this would be the way to end things, convinced, i ran an entire mile, between purple bolts, lattice of static, straight through twenty-five years later, sprinting hand-in-hand with Bayou St. John, rain and wind like sheets, empty streets, not a single success to slow my final thoughts, which smiled, in a screaming vow of silence, and insisted, never mind the emptiness of your words, trust, thumbprints, or limits to your imagination: you can get the world wet simply by toying with a single, suicidal thought. so i smiled, water pouring into my eyes, kept running, and wished for a pillar of wind to reach across the water and remove me, move me, make it all come falling down.

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in print:

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or for fucking free in digital

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so long and thanks for all the pish.