About

You’d think there was a point to all this marauding.

No, there is no point—the words simply come.

What am I? I am a patchwork quilt of various things.

I am the pale yellow fuzz that forms around your mouth at age three.

I am the sleepy, slack-jawed stranger nodding next to you on the bus.

I am found money, twisted and gnarly, meant only for squandering.

I am slick asphalt, hot and tar-black, bubbling under a noonday sun.

I am a pencil stub, worn down by endless repetitive scrawls on lined paper.

I am the fragrant underside of stones, where they sidle secretly against earth.

I am, all these, and yes, sometimes I am other things, I am.