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one bought brass for shaving pencils, and orange paper;
painful to be in silence were those days desert

wore cotton gloves and kevlar lids and green woollen socks
the ever-blare of the aux
them glo plugs in the grottos

to men who fly fancy free
this is no way to live

amid knife-fights, gun-fights
the rounds chambered & guns pocketed with flasks

there were other little men
of crossed arms and crossed wills
and canoes not for the sailing

from the cliffs one slid,
rope-down,
into the grottos of one’s life
the cast adrift
those who would follow is kill them

was the rare moment
one blew not apart

and this dog knows one’s soul sits well away

to starve the whale of krill
urge the dolphin decide
the skin grafts, the shot-to-death seraphs

it spans continents
were the sickening of swallows
and forty-thousand ever miles

say something nice ... or not

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