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draws to the inside straight of desperation

in ruins of his room
among empty beer bottles

the room
where the floor is tilted
like the fun house floor

the man with the axe wrote
poems on

paper bags

toilet paper

on the back envelopes of overdue bills
from a past life ...

on paper plates
flung from the window
like dead flowers

on those

abandon buildings on
cookman avenue...

...the click clack
on sidewalks
from his duct taped boots...

the forlorn echoing
off the soulless places
that made him feel

feel so good...

the man
axe in hand
down 5th avenue...

too soon
the night has found you

to soon
you left this
  3d guy scutellaro
There’s a kind of grief
in a long leaf pine
with a scar cut deep
in its bark from lightning
that shines beneath
a winter’s moonlight
all alone out there
down by the water
like a man in a wheelchair
grieving for a daughter
at the end of the dock
hard and gray
old as the rocks
and cold **** waves
that break in time
along this god forsaken
piece of coastline.
  Oct 9 guy scutellaro
Love can be like
trapped light
existing like dusk
the likes of which we can't see
physical but not optical
gravesites for stars
a waystation for dreamers
a delta to cruise through
paradise on Sunday
cold as ice on Monday
a hundred pound block on tongs
with a butterfly at its center
your temple of madness
or the Egypt of your ***
lands of mystery
an island of death
proven theories of sorrow
your lineage, children, tomorrows.
Blue jeans and lipstick
she awaits her beloved  -
sirens in distance

- fr
turn to alcohol or *** or both
the 40 year old women start looking good
real good
from your apartment
rap music
die your brown hair
and the beard
cut the sleeves off
of the denim jacket
buy a Harley
ride it everyday
one mile
to the Grill Bar
and at closing
ride it home
to sit alone in the darken room
listening to the distance
whispering to yourself
and smiling...
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