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and nothing else.
II.
there is a talking elephant
on a wall
with a hat.
its shadow looks like
a certain guitar
or a crowded room
but they aren’t people
only arrangements of flowers
or feathers falling
and i can’t see it but
i can hear.
III.
grey pants to match
the sidewalks but
you hid color on your
socks
when you were twelve
and again
forty nine
years later
in the future
where everything’s
a doused out flame
dusty smoke behind an old red
bus and we board.
IV.
it’s friday once again
and once again
one of two things is true
my eyelids itch or
i am the most articulate man alive
like
ashish to ashish
on the short wave radio:
there’s a man in a smiling bag.
overrun by weak moments,
i am slowly losing my roof
to the man with the intertwining
nets.
when something involves more than one state
they call that interstate
like asphalt or
money in exchange for goods or services.
it all repeats itself and
puts everyone in rows.
dashed lines
like a long string of days.
some of us aren’t taking
showers anymore
even after climbing dirty trees.
and i wonder if this is how it happened—
slowly, like huge water wheels.
another welcome to
and my cue to be brave
old faithful used to be punk rock.
V.
everyone outside is exercising
a car horn
furiously.
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