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The British Underground
The British are taking off their suits, pants, and irons and diving in the Atlantic – with casting nets tire watches like dust traps in pores of sky legions mapped...
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Soft sun elephants in minor scales of meter dressing
Assuming it would be a while I took measures upon your earth bent dust to borrow from the sky binds of silver paper dots and smooth conjecture, having enough of...
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To the tattered Times on my tailored stained desk
We did not mean to greet you. We came in like a shovel from the past on a cordial visit where Paris sweeps through vacations stakes on Olympian stairways like...
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Your Clear Conscience is Precarious
Your conscience is clear you have no regrets because you think you do not know anyone among those in heaven until comes the day and then you will want to...
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Cardboard sign allies
plead to take my MRI for me on the streets walking back to pose for family photos where my consciousness was never thought of or attempted to be considered, understood,...
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The wind is not the wind
the falling chimes made for Arlo Bonaparte, they had seethed in the concrete of half-baked ash something like a firewall over the previous night left a space to gather dust...
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Poems being read in China this month
Brighter Lightening Stones Counterfeit Dreams of Transparency a heron in the sands of bordering tholos entries Untitled Ancients Constructs built in talking basins Transcendence is a mutual harmony state house...
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the awe of heartbreak
So with “Raindrop,” not being able to hear the awe of heartbreak is a symptom of our misaligned culture. Not being so adept to the radio calling from one sink...
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and the still, small voice
walking away from freedom like toys and dots and mesmerized toiletry fans disassembled on the great lane next to courage and tonight’s tailored station when the school is not for...