by Daniel Harmon
Everything. Stirs me the input is non-stop. Waiting for a friend in a bar. I watch a lemon twist hug the edge of my glass reading places with icecube reflections it seems so clear after a beer a shot and a prayer l seeom the scourage of waste and decomposure. Fascinated by mutation revulsed by mutilation and war that make us all such woeful sinners with such contrasting capabilites. Yet as we think we're fast enough to outrun the future we can't outwit nature. The doesn't play last laugh it just breathes constantly. Whether we pocket it with a stick or not.