My mother has your shotgun. One man, wide
in the mind, and tendoned like a grizzly, pried
to his trigger-digit, pal.
He should not have done that, but, I guess,
he didn’t feel the best, Sister,—felt less
and more about less than us . . . ?
Now—tell me, my love, if you recall
the dove light after dawn at the island and all—
here is the story, Jack:
he verbed for forty years, very enough,
& shot & buckt—and, baby, there was of
schist but small there (some).
Why should I tell a truth? when in the crack
of the dooming & emptying news I did hold back—
in the taxi too, sick—
silent—it’s so I broke down here, in his mind
whose sire as mine one same way—I refuse,
hoping the guy go home.
You May Also Like:
- Dream Song I: Huffy Henry Hid The Day
- Dream Song II
- Dream Song III: A Stimulant for an Old Beast
- Dream Song IV: Filling Her Compact & Delicious Body
- Dream Song V: Henry Sats In De Bar & Was Odd
- Dream Song VI: A Capital at Wells
- Dream Song VII: ‘The Prisoner of Shark Island’ with Paul Muni
- Dream Song VIII: The Weather Was Fine. They Took Away His Teeth
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