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i'm out of weed
i have half a pack of cigarettes
the cold air
through the window pours 
onto my cold toes
breathe a thousand scents 
together woven
there's a light outside
that owes the darkness
he says he's happy in the night
he dreams in his sleep all night
she sleeps atop grass in the billboard light
and sobs along with the highway
she sleeps next to atop the grass
next to the sobbing highway
a car blue chrome cold light lips red
passes smirking warm into the embrace
and blond hair waxing
look at francis bacon sitting in the morning rinse
writing shakespeare's new tragedy
under the hairy stalk green small earth six inches
lumps of chocolate dirt crumble like 
love often does
but on tomorrow's new crest arriving like the silver roof
of a late bus there are meals
to be eaten, tobacco to be smoked, and voices to be heard
in the distance or passing close by with hands
in worn pockets 
so since we're not hungry at the moment
we notice the trees and the rest of the shifting
heavenly bodies that waltz through our
sea of color
my shoes are falling apart 
from walking all day
and my lungs are black
from smoking all night
my eyes are glassy
from using them to greedily devour sop up the colors warped
burning alive begging and to be seen tyne me
a man drops a roll of papers on each doorstep
that huddles in the 4am elysium
white trucks sit behind walgreen's 
where the girls and boys steal their condoms and leave the boxes in the aisles
and buy their ice cream and living memories 
that shivered once in its mystery like the boom of the night sky
over sleeping bodies and hung heads 
who contemplate suicide and dinner inside drug haze 
or a thin lipped sobriety car pulls by
elating its metallic song of go
so tomorrow, when your walking past table legs
sierra and hairy white columns connect over 
a doorway
and the kiss image of a passing window

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