THE NEXT NO EXIT IS NEARThe murmuring corpses of Minnesota flew economy class to Florida.
Pleasure has been decomposing for decades.
I’ve become a reference librarian who is an overripe banana.
There is something sad and funny about being a doorman
who tries to label all the whores wheeled into the lobby.
After 8 months of telecommuting, all this poet has learned
is that he loves rum and mint chocolate ice cream before bed.
I can see a natural rush propel me powered by wild cats.
John Brown is standing close to the historic itch.
Malcolm X is looking at the computer cookies that overflow Harlem.
Machine guns are pumping slaughter into the White House zone.
I talk to someone known as Homer before he has found
a runaway ship to escape on the rub-a-dub pirate womb tub.
All journeys lead to the address that beyond Sartre gummed sex.
Ravishment is as absurd as unbearable is a bumper of exhaustion.
The frenzy lost to all Pasadena poets leaves no exit to extreme persuasion.
I left a Sunday in December to stammering the unnerving clucks of terrified anticipation.
The next of everything can only be nullified by emergency murmuring.
Without an exit at hand, I find all creative shaking has been
spiraled to the next hidden world expanding inside my anti-microbial melting head.
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