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through the hair of a hippie
down the pudgy-finger poked hole in the jello’s saran wrap
through the lips of a lover
past forests of trees, but not for much longer
maybe i’ll be this way forever
into the gutter—but right out again—
from scrubbing in three times a day
to anesthesia sleep
what-if, what-if, what-if
from the eyes of a mother
to the coffin of a soldier
up the sleeves of the magician
straight through the fear of the girl backstage
and the excitement screaming from the front row
under the creaking floorboard of a murderer
and the ceiling seems boring and cold and lonely
when the ink is almost gone
i’ll keep it somewhere else
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