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I’ve been mailing my neighbor

photos of my hands.

I’ve been giving jars

of honey

to every child I meet.

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I’ve been asking the funeral

arranger if there’s a place

where the deceased is registered.

A good pan would do wonders.

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It was Saturday

I walked in circles around

the kitchen for hours.

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Someone is arguing.

I hear it in the deprivation

chamber. And I wonder when

reality will hit

and if I’ll spit blood

or wince.

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I keep donating organs

to the dial phone and Mary

is asking about Maria

and —— every dinner

tastes like warm tinsel.

I’m in the Christmas

mood.

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My stomach is in knots -

it’s all the fake chicken

the wooden turkeys

and leather suitcases

I’ve been selling.

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Went on a date with a Harvard

attorney and kept spitting

grease. That’s warpspeed grease

baby. The real deal.

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I’m bedding Rachael Ray

under the Thunderdome.

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What do you mean

that’s offensive?

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I’ve got spray paint teeth

and I faint

every morning

when I’m asked to take it easy.

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