solo, skirting the rim of our smolder, our ruin,
all lotus bud, bell-beat & drum-song, those many hands &the severed heads they hold, masc-demonic,
The waiting room was small, not much more than a large cubicle with a coffee machine, a couple of televisions, and maybe twenty other parents, all of us equally nervous and trying not to show it. A better artist than me might’ve been able...
Touring the Architecture of Revisionism
