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lunch break
the haze of the medication. the empty bathroom. the cold tile against my face. the bowl like a swan standing up tall. my heavy eyelids. the space underneath the stall. i look for feet. seeing none, i give in to the haze.
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around here
a black L, stripes of space and a metal husband and wife bickering. a naked man writing poems, 31 years old. small goods and small obstacles and William Carlos Williams. he drinks a glass of water. i crave scotch.
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up in the air
ever dreaming of elsewhere. my head is a hot air balloon. the world is too small. who can say what a poem comes to be? on the roof, nearly a year since we’ve separated, i see your long blonde hair and the way it frames your snaggletooth laugh. i shake my hair in the LA…