Same time tomorrow

This is a morning place

Cooled backs of necks
Bodies waddled on sidewalks
Eyes squinting chins yawning
Stalled on avenues weighing
The cross-streets

I’ve been talking for 28 years
Can’t remember a thing
Thousands of trees have fallen in the woods
Whether labeled a bum or poet
of them I’m sure—

I’m gonna write something
A pen has grown from my left hand
Like a pistol it pains to blow
I pay no heed to alleys or locked doors
Choice was removed long ago—

I love to see brilliant minds quiet
Patients laid bare on gurneys
Books split open to middles
Silently spoon-fed the ether
To waft in high-chairs amongst the senses

I know, it doesn’t last
We’re as slow as yaks
Cement softens unto blue pasture
And trails like memory
Towards the air….

The kosmos claim my soul
My body a lead weight—

This is a morning a place

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