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i’m a mess these days

and these days are melting away

like candles on the back porch

in the heat of july

 

it’s only june still

i’ve leaped ahead of myself

i’ve made notes and revised

and welcomed the crippling fear a few weeks early

 

it comes with perks, the subconscious montage,

it comes with the tune for a morbid little lullaby :

 

who will die, who will die in july

father, step father, friend, feline?

who will die, die and die,

in stationary,

somber, arid july?

 

 

 

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hey if the stars were aligned

in ascending order of righteousness,

and if my birth chart wasn’t a nightmare,

do you think we could hold hands

and gaze up at them?

maybe kiss a little?

and hey

if i were squeezed out through the vagina again

and plonked into the hands of fortune,

do you think maybe we could plan things together?

maybe even dream of it?

Rumi said that there is a meadow

where a meeting is destined,

i wonder if that place is meant for us.

oh but wait,

excuse me sir,

in this meadow,

is the grass mowed evenly?

is there a clean place to sit?

will there be time for us at all?