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Knit Personality Dec 2015
A pretty package neat and trim
With wrapping paper fitting slim,
And with a bow tied neat and nice,
Houses a lump of coal and ice.

* .
Ken Pepiton Jan 20
A 'cuse me?

I lie, eh? I know the way, but let me be the one

to wonder why
would I lie,
do you
read or listen or look or stop when al you can do has been done
al read y
and stand
waiting
waithing
to catch a breath

Up ag'in the wall?

If Dunning Kruger is all they got to throw,
you know what
you know, wrong ain't evil,
lying ly real calling right wrong is something only

a left hand wishing to make some noise
could imagine
right

clap clap clap, and **** Feynman
on the bongos
backing us up with a little James Dean ditty from
the Naked City

Times change, reality may be
de or re ift

in a rich man with a satisfied mind.
(if you'd only known.) Take another question?

chew and swallow and wait,
this will get your guts grinding reasons
the frontal cortex always gets

chirality inhibitions about letting the right hand
do anything the left can't imagine.

You know how it is. we get by.
Equality of out comes as I pondered what a good person with Dunning Kruger would respond to being when outed by a *** professing peace is beyon a kuna mootada. Y'know fun to write, fun to read, or your stupid id.
Knit Personality Aug 2016
Sleep, Sleep, tender, mild,
Meaty, sweet & juicy child.
Sleep, Sleep: Sleep a sleep
Soft as is an infant sheep.

Sweet Babe, restful Lump,
Rest thy limbs & belly plump,
Jellied arms & legs & ****:
Every tender, juicy cut.

Savory, salted thou shalt be,
Season'd most deliciously.
Sleep, Sleep: Disease will both
Spoil thy meat & spoil the broth.

O.O
Holly M Jul 2018
empty is not the right word.
what is the word for
not quite empty but not quite full?
there is a glass on the table-
it is not half-empty,
but it is not half-full.
it is just a glass of water.
i am just a glass of water:
not empty, not full;
not happy, not sad-
not anything.
not anything at all.

the clear blue nothingness
reminds me of the fact.
it’s dotted with cotton candy clouds.
i wonder if they are as sweet.
my tongue salivates at the thought.
it is like a land of dreams
without sorrow or pain
yet i am here,
floating lightly
though i feel like a paperweight,
weighed down by the lump in my throat.

it’s hard to remember
what home looks like.
i can’t see in terms of
“where i belong,”
i only see in terms of
“the trees are like broccoli sprouts-” and
“the cars look like hotwheels-” and
“every single one has a person in it, and
they all have their own journeys, and
i am here.”
i don’t think they know how beautiful it is.
i didn’t.

home to me now is a backpack
a couple books
and a trinket from an old friend.
they are the only ones like me:
strangers in a strange land.
i’d like to find my way back someday-
if only i knew the way.
Let me to the Incarnate Mother must
The Eldest of Sudden Truth understand
One Day, which shaky Candles will delust
The Object's Manner of a Blackened Hand
I deliver Forceps to which Heart grows
What Heart's own Attrition dares to admit
The Mum of Three Promised Knights beknows
The Receipt of such Devotion permits
Verily, Age is a Factorless Sum,
Easily enclayed by a Donkey's Foot
And when the Festival lays down its Lump
It locked the Door to keep the Sorrowful.
Now, Elder-Mum, try to lift your Wise Head
This Extended Son, wishes your Love be fed.
Bellissima May 13
Lump

The news came in blows–bashes
to the heart, a butcher
beating a pound of meat.

The doctor said it was your breast,
that sack of fat that hung
so peacefully along your torso.
That soft small pouch which carried a secret,
a coin purse hiding stolen money.

It was that round raisin spout
that oozed liquid love,
what had once nurtured life
only now, to take it away.

Root

The chemo was cold,
naked branches
in the midst of winter.

The doctor said your hair would go,
that those sun brushed locks would fall,
an autumn tree flaking its leaves.

Your nurtured garden,
to be plucked and uprooted,
picking carrots, bare and bald.


Spread

The disease crept up– multiplied,
a bomb of ants
ravishing a crumb of bread.

The doctor said that it had spread
to the cauliflowerd bumps between your hips,
to the heart shaped tubes that cradled
the unwanted mass, a *******
born without a father.

It was an attack your womanhood,
the predator, a ghostly outline
that lingered faintly in the scan.

Carve

The surgery took hours–heartbeats,
the wife of a soldier
waiting to hear of survival.

The doctor said they cut you open,
scraped it out, a pumpkin
scooped and carved on Halloween night.
Your gooey insides probed and poked,
until the rest of it was gone.

He said they shut you with staples,
a spine–like trailed railroad track,
that the skin around turned yellow,
while you looked sore and dead.

Sprout

The healing happened slowly,
an infected wound
spewing pus then scabbing over.

The doctor said that you were clear,
like fresh water, clean and pure.
He said your hair would start to grow,
spring up like tulips
from beneath your scalp.

and you smiled so warmly–
the sun had baked your mouth.
Not only had your body healed,
but your soul.
*n a k e d* branches
A *b a s t a r d* born without a father
Troy Aug 2018
Talking
It use to be so simple
Yet now it’s all a blur
Rushing and hammering in my head

Fear strikes out
As words hold tight
My throat clenches as sadness jerks
And yet nothing comes out

I want to say so many things
But the thought that you might reject
Turns me into a statue
Begging to be released

So I sit there silent
Hoping that I can muster the courage
Hoping that I get through
Hoping to break down this fear

I hold back tears
Wishing that something would happen
Wishing that something would come out
Hoping that the words just break free

I’m in a corner now
It’s either speak or be forgotten
And I fear it will be the latter
For nothing will escape this cage

Pleading and beaconing
The words tangle up
Getting stuck in my throat
As the rush all at once

With they ever be free?
Only time will tell
But I fear that time
Is one thing I don’t have
spysgrandson Sep 2012
I was...

encased in a silver humming tube
shooting through blue sky and soft clouds

the attendant (my daughter’s age) stood
thin knuckles gripping the seat in front of me
whiter than clouds zipping past the window
her doe eyes transfixed on the men
praying with each shallow breath
they would ask nothing of her

some spoke English, some gibberish
waving their razors in ominous dance
slicing the air that carried their words

a pilot at their feet,
a thin red trail, a single line
the only biography he had
written on the cabin carpet
between the cockpit and
where they stood
barking at us, punctuating their orders with prayer and praise
to some God I did not know

“Al lah, A lah…”
more threatening chants
“Allah, Al lah”
more—a shrill scream interrupted this dream
as one yanked an attendant to his side—more venomous words
flying at us like poisoned arrows
(but all of us too frozen to move as these flew through pressurized air)
“please” the only word she uttered before she froze
eternally in the arms of her ****** assassin

the lump in my throat fell, I leaned forward and others did too
(I never saw, but surely they did)
trying to think through the hateful haze
to younger days
how to disarm an assailant—they had to teach me that
I had to remember that—we did that for our beret
but I couldn’t reach back
not further than that morning
when I said good bye to my son

still (“Al lah, Ah lah”—ripping anger from their guts)
I thought, I can do something

the attendant beside me, tears now flowing from lost eyes
(whose smooth blond hair now even looked like my daughter’s)
backed up, her trembling hand brushing my shoulder
(did I think, the last human touch for her, for me?)
my hands grabbed her fingers and I squeezed them gently
(just as I had my own child when I left her side at the altar—
did I say the same words, “Be happy, you deserve it...I love you”)
she looked at me, raindrop tears now instead of fears
we smiled faintly as I pulled her to my seat and rose to my feet

outside the windows
gray square stones now filled the air
blocking the morning sky
where are the clouds I thought…
but only for a second
we
are
not
hostages
we are…going to…

I did not feel the cabin floor as I moved towards the miscreant crew
between me and the cockpit door
I was young, light and agile again, sailing at them
their words no longer calling for their god
but now they spoke in direct command,
nothing of some promised land, but
“STOP OR WE WILL…”
we will…what?
Could I have laughed at the irony…
or we will what?

another now with me, no older than my son
(and looked like he as well)
headed down the aisle
towards men now racing to meet us
four against two
but somehow I knew we would never meet

the lump was in my throat again, my clenched fists relaxed
my own teary eyes turned to the windows, away from the maddening screams
and between endless glass, steel, and stone
I got a glimpse of pure blue sky
last night CNN had a special about 9/11--reminded me of this narrative written on the 5th or 6th anniversary of the event
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2017
The final thought to form before goodbye
will not recall the lover's kiss nor mark
the dappled shadowfall of bright September
days, nor acknowledge the soft metal taste
of blood beneath your tongue. Neither news feeds
nor slideshows, achievements, failures, money,
friends, nor anything you've had. The final thought
will be the didn't do—not the success.
The unacknowledged plan. The incomplete.
A dream. An arm outstretched, an empty palm.
Goals left unattended for better days
that never came or came and went. The thought
will be the should have said, the should have done
while the lump that rises, that beats in your
throat, sinks to your heart and death dilutes you.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
Cné Jan 2018
years ago
i was consumed
in the deep abyss of depression.
i had been there before
and had always managed
to dig my way out.
but this time i got lost
in a maze, each turn dragging me further
into Hell.

so many unresolved thoughts plagued
the chasm of my mind.
i wanted to die,
not to **** myself,
for i couldn't be that selfish
to hurt my family in that way.
but i prayed selfishly
to be put out of my misery.
a prayer i felt unanswered
for months on end.
i tried to hide
this darkness
from those closest to me,
isolating myself.

in a defense mechanism sarcastic tone,
i smirked to a friend
that all i really wanted
was peace.
she encouraged me to pray.
i responded honestly,
"i'm not sure prayer works for me
because i've lost faith."

as if God only answers to those with faith.
she told me
that i might need to see results to believe
but that i should
give it a shot anyway
and stick with it.
i brushed it off.

the next morning,
i woke up with my normal
(worse than normal, at that time)
negative thoughts, you're ****, fat, unworthy ...
(that's the censored, more kind version of my thoughts)
to which i argued in my head,
be kind.
silly i know.
then my friend's words resonated
"give it a shot."
so i quickly prayed a simple prayer for peace
in my mind, body and in my soul.
of course, i didn't feel any different at the time,
but i drug my heavy laden body out of bed.
forced myself to workout and went to work.

my first client that day was new to me.
hiding behind my work mask,
i presented myself professional
with my usual introduction.
she returned the favor
with a look of odd fascination.
so i continued with
"have i worked on you before?"
hoping i hadn't absentmindedly
not recognized a former client.
she responded "no, but you are Liz, right?"
i confirmed and proceeded to my room.
after scoping out the surroundings,
she commented on one of my paintings
on the wall, of an Angel.
it's an abstract.
some people don't see it.
then she asked ...
if i was a believer.
caught off guard
i responded "excuse me?"
she said, "do you believe in Jesus?"
not accusatory or even with aggression,
but a simple question, with dancing eyes.
i said, yes, more out of fear,
with my current frame of mind, at the time.
i was fragile and trying desperately
to hold it together.

i left her to ready herself for therapy
and took the opportunity
to regain my composure,
securing my guarded mask.
when i began therapy
she sighed and said
"i felt in my heart
that you were the right therapist for me,
because i can feel your kind heart."

i asked "did someone refer you to me?"
with suspicion, and narrowed eyes.  
she responded "no. Jesus gave me your name."
she told me how she relied heavily on prayer
and that brought her to see me.
i **** you not.
i brushed off her words
as any sane
(even in depression)
person would.

she was not easy to work
as a large body
that was hard as stone.
but my thoughts began to shift,
i swallowed an emotional lump in my throat.
in that moment, i realized,
i felt privileged to be working on her,
for her to have sought me out
on a quest from Jesus, or so she believed.
a peace i'd never experienced before
washed over me, cleansed me, anointed me.
in that moment, i felt clean, light.

afterward she gave me a huge hug
with an exaggerated pause
and whispered in my ear,
that prayer was the only reason
she was alive.
it felt like no other hug i'd received before,
so tender, sweet and sincere.
so i asked myself
"was this a sign?"

from that day forward,
i found my way back.
navigating the maze.
it didn't happen all at once
but each step, each turn
lead me out of the abyss of darkness
and toward the light of harmony and peace.
and though, i still slip occasionally,
i recall that spiritual experience.
this happened. i don't consider myself and a religious person but i would say i am spiritual.  i don't share this experience often because had it not happened to me, i wouldn't believe it. i share it now in hopes that someone who is lost, isolated, hurt, in pain, and in the grips of darkness, might believe it possible to find their way out.
Sad Girl Jan 2014
I haven't left my house or showered or been outside or opened my blinds in a week and a half. I feel like a limp noodle, I have no motivation to do anything. I haven't been to work and I have canceled counseling twice. I feel ill if my mother tries to make me eat more than once a day. I wonder if anyone notices what's happening to me. I wonder if anyone knows the pain gnawing at my heart and causing this lump in my throat. I wonder if they care.

Every little thing is hurting me. The way that others think of me, the way they speak of me, the way they ignore me, the way they treat me. Everything is just there in my head, swirling around over and over. How needy I am, how annoying I am, how I can't control my drinking, how over-emotional and dramatic I am.

I wonder if anyone knows why the things that they say and think and feel about me effect me so much. Because it's me that they don't like. It's me that they're insulting. You can ask me to change and I can act different, but it's still me. I deal with it every day. I feel every emotion to the very bottom of me. There's no reaction that I act out that doesn't express exactly how I am feeling. My emotions run deep to the core of me. If they say that I am too much, I simply am. That is me, exactly. I can't bare myself at times; Imagine being me every day.

So why not just love me and accept me for being so entirely honest and so real. I'm something hard to fathom, I understand, but all I am is all I ever were and all that I can be. I have masked myself for everyone "I'm fine. I'm always fine." Don't let me deceive you, it's my favorite line. Inside I am crying, inside I am dying and on the outside I'm lying. Understand this; My tears are all dried up and I have ****** back into myself to please you. I am trying so hard to provide the silence that you have requested; so don't ask me why I've disappeared. Don't ask me why I am wasting my life away in a 'cave'. Don't ask me why I won't come out. Don't ask me why I won't speak or smile or cry or yell. Don't ask me why I am lacking emotion. Notice, but don't ask.

I will tell you once again. There is nothing that I feel that does not entirely devour me. Nothing that I feel that doesn't consume my every thought and every second of my existence. You told me to be silent. You asked me to stop feeling the way that I do. So I have emptied myself, to the bottom of me, just to please all of you.

k.d.
Vierra Jun 2013
She sat down at her seat in the train and took a deep breath.
The times spent squandering the daylight in  her lover's arms
was the only iridescent reality she'd ever known.
But even that seems as if only a long fond dream.
She now has to wear sweaters to keep out the cold.
With her headphones playing a soft Bob Dylan tune,
she closed her eyes.
That lump in her throat began to build
and a single
tear rolled down her cheek.
Memories that she was trying to run from hit
her as if all in once.
She held her head in her hands and clenched her teeth.

'Stop this pain.' she thought

'I'm  not going to live someone else's  dreams."

The train didn't  stopped till 5000 miles later.
zebra Jan 2017
you are the Pres
Oh Donald Trump
it seems like America
has hit a bump

your pitiful braggart
mean as a cuss
a bludgeon for a mouth
with a mind full a ****

its understood
you hate the press
you like the shadows
to relieve your stress

well big boy
you are the man
some people say
your loved by the clan

thanks for telling us
about the size of your *****
while conservatives smile
and give it a lick

your a star studded pageant
of confusion and lies
do you work for Putin
are you one of his spies

show us your taxes
are you a ***** for a foe
are you owned by a devil
we need to know

your purging the swamp
is that what you say
Exxon and Goldman-sax
so thats how you play

you talk so big
why not give it a rest
lets see what you can do
besides be a pest

it doesn't bode well
that you don't pay your bills
let subcontractors go under
so what if it kills

break up some families
of Latin decent
with a heart like a razor
are you really that bent

are you big blabber mouth
but don't a have clue
about our constitution
that keeps us true

we trust you completely
let your kids to the job
no problem at all
are you still friends with the mob

are ethics for others
ah to hard for Trump
will America wither
are you cancerous lump

we need some one
who can help us out
not a reckless fool
that fills us with doubt

you are the Pres
Oh Donald Trump
it seems like America
has hit a bump
i like some of trumps basic ideas..infra structure ..bringing back mfg jobs... i don't think hes sane...capable of objective clear thinking....hes uninformed ......mentally slow...incapable of understanding nuance....  a  blunderer.. wreck-less and a compulsive lier......his tax returns remain critical and that he wont show them implies deceit and theres plenty of evidence that hes a kleptomaniac..making bad loans to the point that no bank in the USA will do business with him any more
In short i deeply feel hes a nightmare because
to Donald Trump
facts cease to matter
when he speaks
we don't hear  
a thoughtful
well reasoned statesmen
but the reflections of a disturbed
seemingly deeply subjective
and twisted consciousness  
driven towards the mind set  
of a kleptocrat
Hadiy Syakir Jul 2018
Prayer
is when
you lump
all your fears
and desires
indefinite words,
waiting for
all the fractions
in the metasphere
to take over.
Big Virge Oct 2015
So ....
What does it mean ... ?
to be .... " Corrupt " .... ?!?

Well these days ...
It would seem ...

A good place to start ...
is within ... " Government " ... !!!

Allegations of moves ...
" Corrupters " .... use ....
is ... " Regular News " ...
from ... Government Crews ... !!!

So ...
What's the score ... ?
with ... Government Lords ... ?!?
who have ... Powers to enforce ...

" Some " .... it seems
are now .... " Bought "
to affect the course ...
of ... Future Laws ... !!!!!

Surely .....
Something's ... UP ... !?!
when those ... CLEARLY IN ...
A position of ... " TRUST " ...
Affect the lives of ....

.... " ALL OF US " .....

because of .... Bribes ....
from .... " Corporate Ties " .... !!!!!

So .....
Does this mean ... ?
that ... Corporate Teams ...
who make ... " BIG MONEY " ... !!!!!  

" Cannot " .... make bucks ....
without being ... " Corrupt " ... ?!!!?

" SURELY NOT !!!!! " ....

Those at ... THE TOP ...
I'm sure would say ...

"We don't get paid,
to cook up plots !"

So .....
What's the need ... ?
to bribe .... MP's ....
or ... worse still ... LORDS ... !!!
to .... " MODEL " .... Laws ....
that ... Don't Help ... The Poor ...

It's been done before ...
and that's for ... " SURE " ... !!!

and it ... " Rarely Seems "
that they're found ... " GUILTY " ... !?!
or face .... " Penalties " .... ?!? ....
that affect ... " Their Rights " ...
to ... AVOID ... Prison Time ...
for what's clearly ... " A CRIME !!! " ...

They affect ... The Masses lives ...
just for .... A Money Prize .... !!!!! ...

" Corruption and Lies " ....
seems to be ... " Their Life " ...

But ....
" Corruption " ... It's Clear ...
doesn't end with ... " Peers " ...

" Corrupted Files " ....
seem to set the ... Profiles ...
of those .... Online ....
with ... " Corrupted Minds " ...
Like .... " PAEDOPHILES " .... !!!!!!!!

So .....

If your P.C. ...
Starts to ... STALL ...
You've been ... Surfing ....

TOO MUCH **** .... !!!!!!!!!!!

The clear sign being ....

….... Ofcourse .......

What is called a .......

" Trojan Horse " ...... !!!!!!!!!!

NOT THAT ...
I would know ... !!!!!

"Somebody" ....
Told me so .... !!!!!!!!!

I've watched my share of shows ...
that feature .... " **'s and Pro's " ...

Does that make ME ...
....... " Corrupt " ........ ?

Well ...
I guess ... ?

It kinda ... does ... !?!

But .... " Corrupted Flows " .... ?
Within .... My Prose .... ???

Well ....
Just like coke ....

My answer's .... NO .... !!!!!

So ....
" Corruptive " ... quotes ...
I choose to ... " CHOKE " ...

No Tell ....
No ** ....

But ... corruption now ...
is how ... cameras roll ...

and that's just how ...
the story goes ...
in most of these ...

.... Net Videos .... !!!!!!

Does corruption mean
A need to see ...
These girls in scenes ...
that were ... Once Deemed ...
as being ... " UNCLEAN " ... !!!!!

Well ....
I guess ... that's me ... !???!

But ....
What about .... THEM .... ???

Women ... YES ...
who ... OPEN LEGS ...
and ... Show Off ... ******* ...
to get ... FAT Cheques ... !!! ...
for ..... Having *** ......

Are they .... " Corrupt " .... !?!
for doing .... Stuff ....

That ... in the past ...
would of had them ... cast ...
as ... You Know ... What ...

.... " A ***** **** " .... !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well ...
NOT .... nowadays ....
as long as they ....

........ GET PAID ........ !!!!!!!!!

Now ... i'm no ***** ...
But ... " Corruption's " ...

...... MOVED ......

in how it's ... Viewed ... ???

which is why I asked ...
at the ... Very Start ...

" What does it mean ...
to be ... Corrupt ... ??? "

It seems to me ...
that ... being corrupt ...
can fulfil many dreams ...
of ... " Living It Up " ... !!!!!!

So ....
what would you do ... ?
if you met a ... crew ...
who ... Offered you ...
A ... " Load of Cash " ...
to ... "****" ... another man ...
or to ... Build a plan ...
to ... " INVADE " ...
" Foreign Lands " ...

Well ....
if you would ... " Accept " ...
that type of ... " Payment " ...

Do you think ... ?
" You should " ... ?!?

" Corruption " ... could ...
Affect ... You Too ... !!!!?!!!!

or people ... who ....
are ... " Close to You " ...

which goes to prove ....
" Corruptive Moves " ....
can lead to ... Abuse ...

The kind of ... Abuse ...
that has ... " Moral Issues " ... !!!

So .....
Maybe it's ... " Morals " ... ?
that have ... " Hit the Rocks " ...
and have now been ... " Lost " ...

So .....
What's the ... " COST " ... ?

A lump sum ... payment
to affect ... " Government " ...
which may well ... Affect You ...
more than it does ... " THEM " ... !!!

So ....
Do you think it's ... COOL
when this causes ... " Problems "

Like todays ....
" Credit Crunch " ... !?!

i'll leave that to you ...
to ... Consider ... your view ...

But ....
Here's my last question ... ?
for corruption to ... LESSEN ...
in this .... " Modern Age " ....
where ... "CASH" ... is the aim ...

whether by ... " Getting Laid "
or by ... " Law Breaking Ways "

When you think of this stuff ...
What does it mean to you ... ?

To be one who's .....

.... " Corrupt " ....
Having just watched the docu-movie, Cartel Wars .... this poem came to mind ...
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
This—  This is the closest we have been in forty-seven years. Graveside, I close my eyes. See again, her lips smeared, her head turned, as she had lain unconscious. Whispers of Other Men—   Immoral—   Immoral living—  Declared unfit for motherhood and I am only days from four.  

Before that, in white shift sitting at the foot of her bed and singing quietly to herself. Singing, brushing and lifting her hair. Letting it fall. She is lovely to me. Later that night, weeping, anger, fists and cries.  

At fifty-one I look like him. Fist-Man. Father. He wept in Irish taverns filled with weeping, singing drunks. She had danced the Sunrise on Hastings, whatever that meant.  

She was gone when I was taken. I was gone if she returned.  

A Child Welfare office filled with nervous women, children dressed in Sunday-best and a faint wash of fear—   these memories, all memories, discomfit and jar.  

A metal cup with orange juice. Warm, sweet and slightly bitter. The far end of the room. A bed made in a wooden trunk. Eyes slipping. Box lid closing. Sleep—  

Bewildered, pushing, opened, the room lies stark, white and empty. No mothers. No children. No one waiting here. The lump that rises to my throat is the same one— the same one that rises in spasms from my chest on that dark-boxed, white-roomed and room-filled afternoon.  

In forty-seven years I would stand above her on that overlooking hill. No words to mark her place, a plot numbered between other unmarked and numbered graves. Maybe she was gone again.  

Gone before I could tell her what had happened, that I was sorry, that I would be a good boy, beg her— find me.  

Eyes opened, I have waited long enough. The sun is hot. White lines trail across the sky. Paper from one pocket. Pen from another. I write. Roll tight and push as far in as this ground will allow.  

White paper, ink. Graveside for her. Wayside for me.  
A mark was kept. A mark was left.  

A deep breath in, not held and out.
The Sunrise was a low-end hotel on Hastings Street in Vancouver. The bed-in-a-trunk sequence was as described. The orange juice had a sleeping drug in it and the trunk-bed was used to separate children from parents or guardians without a fuss. '61. Alberta.
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Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
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