dirt under my nails,
eyes dried out quickly while sleepy.
Cans without labels have monsters inside
that eat Mississipi mud pies.
The ground is like a (fossilized) black ice cube, coal—
(the whole world must shut down the coal mines;
—unemployment for each one,
burn the sun in your own hands.)
Remove the most essential core;
the seeds will give you more.
Some poets on the cutting edge of poetry
wearing linen clothes; this is smut:
caution advised if you’re under
15. why not better
keep my mouth shut.
I, who kneel
a Dog can stand before
anyone who likes eels
coz I can make it through the month.
Spent time on poetry, small
rich accomplishment.
Each poem is one single coal,
accumulated coals with passion in the souls. Burns:
am I ill?
Let’s go up the hill and heal.
Time consuming?
and still.
it’s lame the flame of the coal,
all depends how it’s framed.
The sense of getting old,
how much is the price of gold?
I can see the fall in the green trees,
20 stung, the bee
attacks for having a smoke
near the honeycomb, not
really a very clever move,
who knows?
when was first time you went to a Blue Man show?
when I close my eyes I only see black,
but then I think of my six pack,
but then I see the singer in the form of fire
dancing and flying as funeral pyre
I almost reached the goal.
Another coal.



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