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An Hour of a Bad Memory

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Am I delusional?
Ever hour of my life has never tasted
this vivid.
Tasting this hour,
of salt from a sea
of lost-cause children,
and paperback pities.

I write for myself.

And I’ll tell you to
respect the gum
on the back of an old shoe.

After all, its been there for longer
then any one
of you knew how to walk,
you know?
It’s sturdy.

It was bought
from a gas station
and chewed by a traveler
who’s name will be left out,
“X”ed out,
deleted.

He was a selfish man.

Who left his house
his wife,
and three kids.

For a pack of cheap cigars
and some Swedish vodka.
An original scumbag,
from 50 years past.

An infamous man.

Who died alone.
And spit his gum on the sidewalk.
Near a woman’s job spot
where she flattened,
and to this very day,
wore that piece
of sadistic, chewed-up,
Beechnut gum.

Chewed by the mouth
of a man who said the words,

“I don’t
love you,
anymore.”

With a big, drunken smile
on his stupid face.

And left,

with a big, stupid smile
on his face.





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