June 2, 2016

ok, i’m caught/ it’s way too early. it’s way too late/

i must share the draining straining steetlights/

they must only stretch a ways to chase shadows/

but that’s how it goes/

i must only street-clutch with garbage trucks/

the cops are parked deep in the darkest dead ends  in cemeteries/

getting hand jobs from nobodies/

the stop & shop stopped selling beer but i bet they got the lottery/

down low my radio has mirAge jazz/

i’m  wouldn’t resisting this wooden windchimes thing



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