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Cross Genre
(for she who asked)
We poets are strange
Bunches howling
At the Muse. We are Mad
Mad lovers breaking
Promises and releasing Sea Monkeys
Inside briefcases.
For what? Damn her-
Musing words
More potent per ounce
Than crack-
Tornado launched barns,
PB & J smashed
On Berber rugs.
She bunks with Passion who plays
His goddamned music
Too loud too late
Through spin-cycle nights.
He advances as lawnmower blades
Breathing: Now.
We poets are narcissists
Creating self-creation
Myths, making sense
Of meteors showers
Wondering why we can't
Make rent.
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