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Morning cigarette.
Afternoon coffee.
Evening scotch.
Midnight blood.
Rinse, repeat.
If my head is pounding
it must be a Sunday morning.

Or a Monday, or
Tuesday, etc...

Or whatever.
The pull is real,
whether explicable or not.
These things we feel.

Like a neighbor
you knew in childhood.

Like a color you know,
but can't quite name.

Like the sun
from a new horizon.

Pure familiarity.

It's something
you can't quite fight.
It's something
that you think about at night.

Whether it's meant to be
or not,
it'll always it pull us.
Fate's own plot.
Yellow socks,
they used to be white.
Stiff enough to kick rocks,
what a delight.
The beauty of a vast field
covered in rippling waves
of budding, golden grain.

Offset only by its uninviting notion.


Lovely to look at.
Hell to walk through.



Like much in life.




Like your eyes.






Like my mind.
My teeth are yellow.
Crooked.

Clean, though.

Very clean.
Warm sun
Cool breeze
Blue skies
Green grass
Rolled tobacco
Hot smoke
Head rush
Pure elation
Chirping birds
Fleeting critters
Rustling leaves
Lofi jazz
Record playing

I *******
Love June

34 years
Since my first

And my annual
Rebirth.
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