on the fifth sunday the trauma buzzers blur my eyes.  i am siting under the moon, the wet net of fog stacks on my skin, beads in my hair, there is smoke in this field, a geenie moving  i   am  ele men t a l  & his eyes~electric, shock marbles, i keep stopping and starting again~i can’t stand

the ground is mobile.  it is not mud it is not sand.  the ponies gallop towards the sea
at some point they are air born, the air is made of water, it can not stand, it stands

on itself.  i am tired of this place, tired of me, a trumpet screeees and the newspaper is put down to wrap the mop run coming out of my head.  a cigarette burning, of love i get out of this place.  i can romanticize w the best of them.  a trumpet blooows, i am caught

wind is in my hair, ready
to get out of this town

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