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tearing the rag off the bush again
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A Contradictory Catalyst

The visionary is kept up
all night seeing
the first Goth put on

Straining shoulders, reaching
for the power chord, but not
able to extend fingers
any straighter, the visionary
retreats back into sleep
like a retarded pearl

that can’t resist
peeling off the
hundred-year-old family
wine labels

now reprinted, to include
the new website address,
where you can order
for immediate shipment to your
current home address.
The visionary reads the
new article by
the pot-bellied, desk

with reused, wire-news
details of the day’s
losses, it omits
rumors of flies fatter than the kids
they harass.


Do you want to eat?

No. I’m gonna take a piss
and drive as far as I can.
Show up in some type Northwest town.
Everything’s been a cakewalk,
Icing and butter bread.

Last time he talked about the headstrong. He got all teary-eyed talking about kikes, niggers, spiks and crackers. Nothing seemed more inappropriate. He left so much out.
You should learn to take life less seriously.

I just fucking told you. You got
the memory of a Sunday
morning teleprompter. It’s a
fucking cakewalk from here. Icing,
butter bread.

Saint Philip’s Blue Tongue

Add something. Or people trampling
over a garden of purple and blue
pansies, consumptuous,
or better yet, the best of luck to them.
But bless your patience
Saint Philip, sitting on a
Magnolia limb, feet dangling
like a toddler on a swing.
And I, waiting beneath for
a taste from your melting
blueberry snow cone, thank you.
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