poem, by jesus
tired. tired tired tired.
of being shit out of time. i have a king's hands in that my fingers are fat, pink, and long. i have the palm of a child.
and i always hated elizabeth bishop. first she caught a fish, then she sat with her aunt and read national geographics.
and w.c.: images in things, and then patterson. which is all words.
my feet are the size of cow flanks. and they smell like cheese.
leave me alone. stop fondling my extremities. let me
corpsify.
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