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A thousand years from now

I melt
I walk
I smell
I stalk
I kill
I fuck
I will

Againandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagain

I Shall

return to the killing on that prairie by the buildings that collapsed right before /
the sheep’s’ eyes

that gray Monday  (as you hawks squawked it)

*************

For OpenLinkNight at @dVersePoetsPub where Joseph Hesch has opened a Pandora’s Box on inspiration: how does or what makes a poem happen? Well, in light of the above, ‘divine intervention’ will simple not do. Nor will Lorca’s duende, I suspect. I really have no idea as to how poems come to me since many times I don’t recognize them as my own, especially as time passes. I suspect that there is some anguish, somewhere, some anxiety that a little critter inside of me brings out. Sometimes he’s not nice.

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