Saturday, February 15, 2014

66 inches

"Be there with a knife and two forks"
she had told  me although
I would trust nobody
"Be there with your countenance, your nephews and
one inch
of blood salad
Arthritis is your goddess"
started whistling my wrists would break down into small pieces
of cauliflower buds of surmise your throne
"Never clone your benzodiazepines" then a customer spilling
money on a flung ATM - oh crap people from diaspora they're all the same -
or so they used to say those niggers in a concentration camp full
of anti-psychotics running out of light my skin trembled and a pocket
full of socks would save me from freezing
"Be there with your faith you don't need anything else"
then she died of cancer and all her aliases
are now mine. I wonder why or
who am I to entrust them?

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