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Parallel and Terrified. 

Weighing two sides, shit
resting in both open hands,
my arms
fall away,

let the feces hit the ground.
Rest assured: it will bounce,
not splatter, and in the nearing end,
really, what does it matter?

All of it seems destined
to hit the fan any-fucking-way.

I belong to a side
away and between both open palms:
parallel and terrified. 

I will find my soap box, speak
my mind, all right, bloodletting
and alchemy conducted,
naked, from beneath
an industrial-strength umbrella,

voice sure to be lost
in the wailing winds
and utter destruction
of the coming shit-storm,
but it’s all right.

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