you can count a lot
on his aimmagination
and then to watch the roots
of him, in the local, whatever
more terrible or
whatever yours
is,
in the call
I must answer
he is my teacher
and knowing we dropped rubbish
at the foot of the roots
hands in pockets,
biting
'whoa! you'd better catch me!'
'whoa! catch me!'
no solitary lovers out
on the corner, what a circle of birds
smoking
The biggest one I went after
'Where is Jack Krick?' I shouted
apparently the mayor was present
My breathlessness defines life.
Remember to take down (every day)
one cock & balls poem
for Jackie
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