Jake Seven

A few lingering brush flicks, olive drops of color splitting open on the vines, the roulette ball of our random lives dropped into the basket on some universal wheel and the road keeps winding out before him like a wick, excerpts from Steve Gehrke's poem Jackson Pollock Driving. A few lingering brush flicks, olive drops of color splitting open on the vines, the roulette ball of our random lives dropped into the basket on some universal wheel and the road keeps winding out before him like a wick, excerpts from Steve Gehrke's poem Jackson Pollock Driving. A few lingering brush flicks, olive drops of color splitting open on the vines, the roulette ball of our random lives dropped into the basket on some universal wheel and the road keeps winding out before him like a wick, excerpts from Steve Gehrke's poem Jackson Pollock Driving. A few lingering brush flicks, olive drops of color splitting open on the vines, the roulette ball of our random lives dropped into the basket on some universal wheel and the road keeps winding out before him like a wick, excerpts from Steve Gehrke's poem Jackson Pollock Driving.