Took myself seriously for awhile.
Fucked angels and
dreamt of putting
sturdy bullets through my brain.
But their direct manner
made me secretly laugh (the bullets, mind, not the angels)
and I chose marriage instead.
Finest dawn on your birthday, marriage.
Gray storm clouds full of rain.
Tornadoes blowing everything
back to hell. Leaving one of those
wide gaping trenches
you only fully grasp
from a chopper.
Let me get this out.
I am dismal.
breaking train wreck tragedy
on the 7 o'clock news.
Nothing at all like fucking angels,
or the romantic
suicide-madness of youth.
I want to say something
and mean it to you
like nothing I have ever meant before.
Speak a word of truth
that reverberates through
computer screens and touches
every single soul.
I know my word. And it is of black places.
Separate.
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