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Poverty’s Offerings.

Comes from a place,
an alien space,

of no emotion,
least, not as known,
and into a world
inundated by it,

in which I am
to it

(I am but a sponge,
a radio receiving all stations at once;
jet fuel without a container)

and all its vicious vibrations,
agonizingly low
and painfully-pleasantly
fucking high frequencies,

and in
either case, relentless

realize that. Please,
keep that in mind.


I am surfing naked
here. All I know is that you comfort
and excite me.

All I know is that you’re all
I’ll ever need
to keep going. To drown
in your eyes

again. To have you straddle
me, invite me to climb
on, enter after twisting
you ‘round,

holding you down
and plunging
into, driving

you to a place available
through our meat and wires
where there’s no one left
but you and I,

so nothing to truly
hold or let down,

or otherwise
or terrify.

Just soil.
A baseline
from which to grow

in winding roots,
and far above,


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