—EVERYBODY SAY, YEAH

 

 

F   r   i   d   a   y     #   7

 

 

Friday shreds each poem I write, feeds the words into a woodchipper then meatgrinder to be certain. It’s all lies anyway, compensation for a dysfunctional daybreak. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy—that sort of thing. And you were probably lying, too, when you said you never lied. For the record, it makes sense now that I see things through the eyes of a dead man, shining like needles in the dark.