hunted by South American meat packing conglomerate

He was a tapeworm

his sister had a bad perm
sitting on her head,

edge of the bed
in a knife sliced
corridor of light. These thoughts,

that leaned like weak trees
in a cutting breeze.

These thoughts
that we’re never straight more
a child’s hurricane scribble.

A mental ball of twine collecting clutter.

ans when the cobra struck,

I thought of you

ready to suck the venom

or offer the antidote.

The misery and turbulence,

the fear of being hunted by the anonymous faces

of a South American meat packing conglomerate.

It was alwasy there, in the open.


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