Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Grown gods on the pavement light
pipe veins, knit hats
garbage bag carrier selves
whom I march in my personal repertoire
from chimney to stairwell in cut gloves
chasing authorities over the roofs gashing
long shiny eye horns on an imploded sofa
gazing past a skylight to their bleeding run
cushion wishing for nothing
crawling through the golden catalog I am
pushed into stardom by steam mop of janitor heat
ax buried halfway into the forehead, pale
and screaming in stolen languages
more beautifully than any other.

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