

Your Lights Were OnThe stars are wrongYour Lights Were On
Yet they persist their shining
On this lackluster earth
Like so many drops of kerosene
Dripping out the cloaca
Of a shedding snake
And now that he's lathered
We'll comb him with teeth
And tear out the knots To throw on the floor
And with repetition in mind He'll suck the same spots
He knows nothing And nothing is fine
His feelings are absent
And described with no words Leaving metaperceptual lexicons
To fill in the void
They hang on like thread
Of a button-down shirt
S


Winn-DixieThere is a cadence to Winn-Dixie. A pattern to its days that is forever and unchanging. The week starts Thursday. Why? I dont know. All the employees get paid every Tuesday, and find out our schedules for the upcoming week. Theres always that stabbing disappointment when you have to work on a day that you had plans. You can see it on peoples faces as they look at the schedule. The look of damn it, the reexamination of the schedule in hopes that they read it wrong, and finally resignation.Winn-Dixie
But the pattern pervades deeper than weeks as it seeps into the individual days. Monday through Thursday its rather qui


BostonThe phallic symbol at the edge of the bed Seems to have followed me to BostonBoston
Where it watches me walk the commons distrait
And passes me at South Station
Wearing an unsettling green suit jacket
Where it laughs as I push schizophrenics across the street Screaming their stomachs out in a flashback Where it derails me off the Freedom Trail
So that I may see the crazy fathers of Boston And their sons who wish they werent related
Where it bends me at my knees
So that I may be dragged aimlessly
Through the most intellectual city Ive ever known
Past S
--
Ralph
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