Tuesday, April 28, 2015

EMBOLISM

On the long hoary streetside—a young-
ish man,
thin and lovely

stooped and 
crying feebly over

not!—the wasted coagulum 
of pinkwhite 
ice cream puddling

there 
before his lusty
stubborn feet—but rather,

without 
even knowing it—his own growing clot 
of confusion regarding

enjoyment!—which seems as though 
it ought

to continually 
ooze in

at all times
from all places—with

true joy—
and the sweet cold brave 
freedom begotten

when and wherever
it pours forth
from the only

space
that it can
and it must—deep inside.

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