MORNING
On Jack, morning opens with clarinets.
Broken
frowns mistaken for smiles. Gargling
brooks. Liona Boyd
and her spider hands. And her golden
hair falling over her bare shoulders.
It takes me hours to wake. Slower than
Lazarus. Hovering in that
awful universe where fish wives are
screaming. And Trump
is picking vowels out of the consonants
in his golden bowels.
The cat is doing the laundry. The dog
is smoking a cigar. Almost anything
is possible when you first open your
eyes. I feel like
something fried. Egotism has been
legalized. But not
before you take the first dozen pills.
Bi Polar bears are disappearing on the
western
coast of Hudson Bay. No one knows whats
happening to the East. Where the Wise
Men
headed. Never heard of again.
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