Tuesday, January 17, 2012


In view of the copse of trees
I study your poetry and make my mind
to charge and scream and yell and die
on the field
out off my glittery big tired
american eyes, tired legs
and arms seated in grave
chariot rolling across the golden
wheat fields that aren't wheat anymore
but some demon creature conjured in our
dreams that is hard to digest and only
two feet tall, what the fuck?
I want a poetry collection with my name on it
and nothing else, no color just black inky
nothing nothing nothing



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