burningmonk

We sleep in the sing song windy window rattle of Tuesday afternoons, late for class and life amid used books scattered half-read and dogeared, cold pizza and debt.         —as the suns sets in Damascus, some woman bleeds in Persia, the colossus sinks into the sea, we write dissertations on bud brewed chai: honey sweetened jasmine spiced earthly melange         —we ponder the beginning, in Africa-ca-ca-ca.... the first dustings of monkey perception rising from the valley.