Friday, December 7


what’s so alone, a bayonet or
a fishing net, that sweeps in
watery clouds?

I wrote a really good epitaph
once, made me sound like a naval
hero, rested;

Outcast from life’s feast, this
light my chandelier exit,
without grace

a slight stumble over the dog,
a bowed my sweetheart, a

darling with red hair and all
my sanities in her arms,
dooming myself

(too young for this)I have a
pop song for the end of my
life and

it is two-minutes-thirty-two
long, it crescendos at the
point I

practiced my signature in biology

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