The Typewriten  lines.

If you could imagine the bouy that never could fly

For fear of Being caught in the ink 

well that ran dry 

It’s speed dialing the old King coal mine 

for gold the foundry Sheared grinding stone 

and a treaty washed off Into these very 

typewritten epidermis shorn bones. 


philosophy Hidden Below those tides 

Lies a broken Shipwreck.

Whipped foals tried pulling Trees 

in furrowed waves of borrowed

Brows set so low they slung

There grand papas genes from 

Here to a refilled glass slide to you.