committed too/tolerence for violence

happy drunken irish day! and in the past the snakes were ridden from a small island and out further from the hipsacks of druids. but several other things had happened.



country shed like a shirt. take my hand
signs and the cold that comes. take my

miles from this year and transfer, there
is no lasting converse/people with their

quiet bodies scrapped, especially at the
workplace. if you intend to lay

claim to thoughts you better
possess another head entirely

formed of instructions for what
to do with them stray and

unkind things–a shaft
of light superimposed

on the window, a whole sky
made of glass and waiting

in accidental lines below. my back
is made of brick and mortar, my

my my my my my my my my
glitch in the recorder. your getting

your used to.
hands in pockets

and kids at war
with the carpet.

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