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Thunder Sandwich #23 |
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Pedro Travino-Ramirez |
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Gravel & Cement eighteen years of marriage, thirteen prior with steady outings, infidelity, quiet implications; love, I would have a career now, not four fucked up kids, and me in the backseat, drive through Louisiana en route to Texas: drugrunning cousins, guns, uncle tacho the spanishpreachergodman- grooved road, no easy transition to gravel bayouside, my parents not talking, remembering someone else naked, or, your sister, dear, your brother, darling Duration of a Wound you will be gone soon, décor, ash, ironslag & cursed automobile, shatteredman: between highway & headrock, ceremony: heard you say then, maybe, our dead are always that way or, off another road, you'll be like that also- psychiatric ward, amphetamines, long time damage, closed casket; day proceeded by day, no turn leftlane; you'll be like that also- scratching your testes and where, old sun god, did illumination go, when did lungs rot instead of breathe querulous, who the jazz poetry anthology is licked by a dark kitten remember this poem of half-verse & endlines when you go up in summer spark and can recall nothing else of boy & the time you left me in a shincramp apartment on a coldwintermountain of fluctus depression heighten leveled by woman- and I was mad as dogs too, hurling tables, ashbowls & jazzanthologies into the ether slough, under couch, into wall, through- remember feathers pillowthreshed found swept beneath the kitchen & my nails hung sting scratching my neck slightly irritated though grateful for your wild hair at night after the fact & your sweethead against my dark symb- -olized chest. |