cold hands shaking for cigarettes, my friends
are cutting coke on ginsberg’s “howl” and i want
to play pixies songs all day ‘till my heart turns
boxcar black, sometimes when i look at
a house i can feel other houses, my houses
the houses of my childhood all mythic and
yellow memoryless, and sometimes this makes
me want to write in nuclear chalk on the gulf
of mexico that we are not the future, we are not
anything, if i had a laser pointer, i’d show you
with precise detail why the moon hates us,
it has something to do with our hands, something
to do with our hearts…
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