When in the mist of a phone call you loose
yourself in thought and all seams an allusion,
when I take you for granite like statues
of limitation, and the one solution
seams to excape like hoarses from a coral
fenced with Bob wire, than thoughts go wild, gallumping
off, and take a different tact. The morale
is when I spread whip cream on your volumptuous
bawdy, when I gays at you awl rapt
up in duck tape of lust, its not enough.
We use each other viscously. We dangle
over a whole, unable to adept.
But cant we change? Lets nip it in the butt.
We kneed to see things from another angel.
—from Rattle #32, Winter 2009
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