she’s the soft light in a 5 star hotel.
her hand sits heavy on my neck.
it anchors me.
otherwise, the storm takes over.

the static is my own damn fault.
a broken, anarchist brain.
sparks flying in the skull.
fifty half-dead poems on the desk.
a camera shutter clicking at 3 a.m.

the noise demands the ink.
the lens demands the proof.
without them, I am nothing.
just smoke disappearing into the dark.

Contact me, if you want to.