Franz

I tell my father to write because he is good at it or because I do not want to hear his demons anymore. I am not Kafka he tells me. Your name is close enough I tell him. Go to sleep, my little cockroach he tells me.

seaside

you are shore and i am sea

our endless divergence can’t you see

untitled

smoke climbs up lazily from your cigarette and you gaze mindlessly across the table. our eyes meet; the misplaced spark jumps from green plastic in your hand.

"we are simply caught between the greedy hunger of yes yes yes and the bitter pinpricks of no no no," you tell me.

i sound my response with an invented cough; the waiter puts it out with a frosty glass of water.