The burn around my face completing.
How I control the weather after a darkness,
increasing pressure, kites a solid beer into my waiting
and caliber skull. It is fine to say a little halleluiah,
big dance of sand and specks against those people,
the ones with soft and danger
lodged within bright receptors. Patterned,
I am marching with song, no hymn,
just bulging human touch.

You sailed away a happy man. You could name
many diseases. It was a Sunday,
and we had it in mind that we were doing serious things
about people and their not-serious ways.

What were we doing in the closet
of our youth? Calling each other “dick-face”
with the hope to never be found out
for the scrapped machinery we were?

Like, right now, I keep adjusting this manual.
I never feel ready to cut the grass or take a pill.
You led away with a mind of alternative
compensations for happiness. What a trick!

“Who cares,” said a great
audience member, “We’re all so busy writing
these letters to god.”

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