Graffiti on the bridge reads,


The light inside has broken
but I still work.”

On the desk Mr. Potato head looks
funny in his spectacles, so I laugh.

Box fan on
low, pointed
in my general direction,

secret bedroom door
shining light
from the cracks
while boxsprings creak
in rhythm;

let the damsel come
onto the white bedsheets,

let the scent

When the pearly gates arrive
we are reduced to our experiences,

our most passionate endeavors
with varying degrees
of unplanned success.

As the pilot flame ignites,
let the story line diminish;

slip on headphones
during the comedy show
and laugh from the belly
the whole night through.


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