A Happy Poem Sliding Back & Forth Between Sweaty Palms & Into Oblivion

I pander as provoked:

she—we—he & me

as crooks,

as little glooms &

a little to show

for a night’s drunken

throbbing—

 

a few thoughts corralled

to a point, as to stab

an achy gut—lungs—cut fingers

to paper & celebrate:

 

published two poems today.

 

I will drink to that,

& to hammers, &

their flat red impacts.

 

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