Tuesday, September 16, 2008


The open ended summer
wheat pales flat in 
a farce of self destruct
but my fingers smell
like embarrassment and and the stains
nihilseismic elasticity.
Your life is over.
I fall back until
wind crunch leads to
free form woodgrain
stucco when I know
I am doing
what is right?
Socrates, I will fuck 
you until your wisdom flakes off
chafed from yours to mine 
and I am at ease to smoke until I die.

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