sure the good times roll without a sound but those are city miles
sourdough winters drinking a hole through the rug in Cass County
where the water always tastes like the river's high
might could cut me out of drywall there
might could inhale then find my trace sample twenty years out
this body I suspect of cancer and what's more addiction
blousing happier like rhubarb in the dark both sweeter and red
again with frigging my hip on the counter
bruises in the shape of a city someplace else I don't remember
death rebirth and the potential for each friend
when you're back on the bare hook of being a person
here's the kingdom—you'll get the keys in the mail

you'll get a cracked windshield you'll get a flaming wooden torch
you'll get a wish on an eyelash you'll get a little pill


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