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April 19, 2011
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Last night I sat out under pinprick stars to dream.
I awoke to fight my future
Rising hydra like before me
And in my hand nothing but my broken fist.

The triangular constructs of the universe
Shook violently in my palm
Like small scratched red knees
Hiding in the deep milk dark.

The mandibular lock-jawed priests
Come flapping at me in their cloaks of pitch
And I wrap my arms around them
Holding them close, dear men who groan.

A yellow light that highbeams bright
Shone blinding from my open eyes, my open mouth,
Flooded my throat with burning joy
Blistered my tearducts and rearranged my face
Into a shuddering rigor mortis mannequin
Convalescent with love.

Over them all rattled the child
With filthy curls and gap-toothed smile
Curling up her fist
To lay me low with a single swing.





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