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Friday, April 14, 2017

The Days Are Long And The Years Are Long

I moved my body and filled my head. I
filled my body and moved my head.
In the new situation, I regret
what I will be when I've done what I did.
I fill my head with deregulations.
I feel my rights scattering. My face isn't speaking
to me. Everything to you
emerging from
love slowly
depopulates. (repopulates?)
Poetry leaves me the red balloon.
Roman and Gus cry
when it doesn't come back
because it won't come back.
Or because hungry because tired.
Each day I eat each
day and am hungriest
in the hungry morning. Now
it will be the tired evening. Tomorrow
doesn't rhyme, though it looks like it should.
How many rooms have you ever entered
and never left? Term of endearments. Modus operandi. Operatic mustache. 
Written on the skin, signed in blood, coughed up in phlegm.
Should some of the body stay outta here?
Shall some of the bodies stay outside in the cold? 
My dreams stay in while my words are out. 
Insert the pin and turn the screw. 
Roman at four likes to talk like Gus at two.
I read my old poems and wish we talked like that too. 

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