DoveSoup Art

Hey Jack J ack, why did you slash the wrist of your immortal muse? Did you stare as Red idioms pooled? Dripping, seeping, spilling, pouring streams of skillful consciousness soggy on the soles of your boots, leaving tracks along Route 66. Allen, the hawk stopped by my garden for breakfast today Majestic menacing brazen magnificent. Can you imagine having Bukowski as your mailman? And what would you Say to the academics when they ripped Billy to pieces, while his back was turned. © 2009

Dead-heading, the saddest of all garden commissions. A faded bloom A necessary evil, A tiny death falls into my palm. I'm sorry, apology whispered. Only able to do so many before I must escape. I sit on the deck, smoking. I smoke a cigarette, rocking and chide myself for the grief that like a thorn burrows in my chest. ©Dove Cochrane