scene in the halogen lit market
by way of a gross gray bag sweating
greeting cards in the stall
break open forever
past the coffee cans and ceramic fandom
out
green reflecting streets
feet slapping crappy happy
gum-packed pavements
in a fart jar town
lids on
we malcontents holding our noses
sang for want of a song of our own
and finally found some
after years of fears spilling
we drank them
there at the bottom of the glass
the golden life of the whisky writer
then the liver gave out
good with onions though
don’t be one of those
there’s no need for cliches
when the rich randomness of a warm summer night
pours itself directly from the city-dimmed stars
into your heart
and sings
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