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by
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glass can
Poems
May 2013
give my vicodin, give me france, give me pain from this lance
I squeeze the white flesh on the underside on my arms,
gently, I account for bruises, counting each one by one.
like spilled ink congealing,
under my thin skin, purple,
yellowing, blue, and green,
= the colors in nature found
I stretch like a cat, testing my arms for reach,
and I wince, tears brimming in my eyes, hard
something has been pinched, broken, or ripped
inside, some muscle is not connected to another
some tick, hair-thin mark
graces my red colored rib
ripped muscle lies against,
some useless dying muscle
I want to go home
I want to go to sleep
I want to go home
to sleep, to heal, to die,
wherever home may be
Written by
glass can
San Francisco
(San Francisco)
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firexscape
and
Andrew Quilles
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