It’s called ‘Untitled’ and I think that’s appropriate.


Since I seem to have missed you
with the sluggish slowness of the snail
I was looking for you, then

in sweet
adeptness
of
suicidal
winding trail

I was looking for you. God,
on the goblins of the landscape
and not finding your sun in a snare of the desert
in a city that has already strangled me
I was and remained a social donkey
Maybe a little cracked
hobbledehoy
with oversized pantaloons

Am I dog slobber as for bone-in brown oils and gasoline?
are all made up of peach chops
while there somewhere a killer whispers in mobile?
glory is a group work on systematic harvest gleanings.
in a sculpture of parchment of unfinished manuscripts
in my grave, I will crew
this morning
outpatient.

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