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more
along the lines of a bird race, the first and only time
ever more popular and bulbous
licking the clouds from the
sky - a man will find his
time to
run from the life he built
out to the river to die, the
martyr lies in the silt
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i’m back after a loooooooong hiatus
made another blog, didn’t get any followers, went back to this one
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as the foreign theater births me onto an asphalt street - then, I may contemplate the uncharted -
when I am already at its feet.
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A portrait of what I’m looking at 01
surrounding me is a sea of beige, flat,
i see through windows with slats,
more colors, yellows and reds and blues,
pervading the atmosphere.
a world of many hues
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on tanning, and the distant future
i am to be baked by this sun
in the oppressive afternoon, that
golden glisten
shining singing
seared
scorched
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A portrait of what I’m looking at 02
“judy empire
new material”
in green, floral, organized pieces, strewn about
like my own foundation, but not quite to scale
under a red american tourist(er)
gazing at plastic over glass, twisted to different levels of light-letting
hesitancy
red and black stripes, vertical, to break the reign of the blinds
warning:
a desk’s wooden corner
Barfly
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I took my therapist to lunch one day
we rode a steel train in the rain
he shook all night as I stroked his head
and I laid him down in a coal miner’s bed
he turned to me, and through all his pain
said out loud what he’d entertained
coughed up all the dirt he’d claimed
and said “look at the ways we’ve changed,
look at the ways we’ve changed.”
we got off the train and continued to roam
and further and further we strayed from home
so a few weeks later we tied the knot
and two years later he got shot
so it’s back on the train I lie
looking up at the mackerel sky
remembering our last goodbye
he said “I’m waiting for my turn to die,
I’m waiting for my turn to die.”
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