Pocket the billiard ball as I/you sip coffee,
one hand on my cue stick, another palm on a wall,
why do you say I always lean on divinations?
I’m jobless, tactless, tasteless with dubious
religiosity that forgives you, bastion of hope and
ticket to the moon; always swoon when I see
you, even as death crimsons in lively parodied
fathomless depths like unhealthy sub sandwiches, belie
the Beatles were here in ‘66. Did you see John?
I liked someone aloof, another infantile, despite
curmudgeons and pantheons devouring my life. Then
you came along, took me to snort it up. Jesus.
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