September 2015

Castaways, we hit the forest — our camping stove
turned low, I gripped my tent close for its trial
in virgin attitudes of stiffness while
lamps fluttered on the dark. My roof sank wave
on wave accordion-like, the only sin
we knew; and soon the Jameson appeared.
I’d...

More than ample a deadfall of one meter eighty to split
my temple apart on the herringbone parquet and crash
the operating system, tripping an automated shutdown

in the casing and halting all external workings of the moist
robot I inhabit at the moment:...