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Thursday, November 4, 2010

hobo funeral

I: trip wire

she'll enter cold
like a match made in heaven
and every morning,
another dramatic curtain call.

i just do not have the patience.

in my dreams,
her eyes go from cyanotic,
                    to strychnine,
                    to apartheid ghost.


II: finding a new place to hide our hands


i carved
the subtleness of lying
from the finish
on her bed frame.

while our insides
were worth our weight in words,
the insinuations,
had begun to sweat
like dynamite.

soon estivate,
wasn't the half of it.

rejigger, on the other hand,
was at least the other half.

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