Don't recall the last time I
sat down and wrote,
didn't stay for the last bus
dressed in cloak,
between the morning traffic
and suppressed crave,
a woman next to me smells like
an ashtray.
And I am thinking about the
asymptotes,
crossing over that tangent
line,
stepping into an unite circle,
only place where I can see
that angle.
Hypothesis over the hypotenuse,
I refuse to watch the news,
and there are odd goals,
and there are even instincts.
High school episode of a brawl,
hydrogen peroxide in a college
dorm,
light years away,
and I am going to pick up that
unfinished business,
and I am going to crack up Pandora’s
happiness,
it shall be more than
everything at ease,
it's about time I poke the
base.
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