look how straight he stands
his vertebrae so very neatly aligned
each a pestle to the mortar beneath
grind, grind, grind
like a pepper shaker,
and the grains
of nerve words
softly pile up
before he blows them up
to us, a storm
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the sun shines brightly cutting through the haze into tight corners of the post-atomic daze the concrete alley floor, with its broken flow...
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for fourteen years i wished my father dead at the age of eighteen i buried him it would take another six years to be rid of his physica...
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