Finally made it to my wid-week-weekend, a three day vacation at that. My heart is set on doing another 24 hour broadcast tomorrow - it all depends on how early I wake up. Slow day in Poetryland.
After The Wreck
Lately my throat itches when I try to sleep.
I've been told I look like an overdue chore -
a fine line to describe my lovemaking.
This pestering acidic itch: could my lungs
be secreting it? My love of all things sly
and aesthetic is turning sociopathic,
barbs protruding from tolerance
predatory phosphorescence
smirking downward
into solipsism
as if I know
what that
means.
When the waves chop like this my leg aches.
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