burned down like a popsicle stick log cabin
through bushes of curly hair her fingers ran
asleep with eyes focused on two index fingers
her hair sprayed with seeds and on her breasts
my yellow watermelon digesting supplying nutrients
to our bodies (and the creation of new bodies)
a library full of words on pieces of paper
but no one is reading or writing just thinking
exactly how long till the weekend
don't be reading over my shoulder
the structure of poems can look like a
yellow jacket swatted with a newspaper
just words of a suicidal photojournalist
they walk down the hallway like nuts
screwing onto bolts
the thought of air conditioning coinciding
with a jazz professor bassist
the brilliance of Ira Glass vs. stupid
curly haired girls named Madison
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