bring out ‘yer dead…

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Violet Bathroom Dictator

He is the violet
Bathroom dictator; King of the plastered
Hairspray combover.

He is fall
October turning chill at 10:09 p.m.; A smoldering
Ruin, abandoned house burnt.

He is tornadic
Aftermath, roiling clouds receding;
Waxing solar eclipse.

He is a prickly
Brown weed foisted into the wind;
Injured porcupine.

He is a stagnant
Tidal pool; A sargassum-clogged beach
After man o’ war arrive.

He is a rusted
’74 green Impala; A worn
Holy-soled shoe.

He is a stillborn
Merengue; A ridgeless guiro
Missing its rhythm stick.

He is a bruised
Rotting Mango – Acrid
Espresso in the Little Havana heat.

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“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

— Anne Lamott

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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