Saturday, November 7, 2009


sorry for the way we scar. In the Information Age... fuck it, never mind, it's all
part of the poem's less-is-more absurdity. A store shows me smiling and
laughing. I love the idea of protection. Mink and rabbit fur; the pink ends
repeated. I'm sorry, I've lost the nerve. Can't recall when I ever got dislocated
from finality. In Iowa, there is wind. Goalpost bubbles between two ears. Obviously 
the sheer number causes soldier-on-soldier constipation. After we finish health care...
fuck it, never mind. I see them bring out my gentleman in a bloody shirt, prick shot
off. I'm devastated, I've lost my hero. Hostile elements cleanse, vigilant sanitizers
patrol the vast future. Dad's old light. Roomy leather from a rough suction.

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