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Thursday, April 20, 2017

Good Luck

It isn’t useful to celebrate being alive.
Look, I bite into a resource that is
destroying the planet. I bite
into another. The hand biting
the hand. Bravery feels so industrial.
I’ve survived enough, haven’t I.
There must be a panning out, a
fountain. I take my vitamins, piss
a healthy neon. I wash a knife, its
blade a good worker. I eat an apple,
an orchard bled, firm capital, the
buck twenty for organic that could
keep a village fed for a week. What
should I tell my three-month nephew
about the ocean, his name also Gray.
Should I tell him about all of my fathers
who said not in my lifetime. A duck
sleeps on cement, its head curled under
a wing. Beyond, a discourse. Blue
matter of a life I refuse. The wind
a catalogue of known things, gone.

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