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I'm Living Inside Again

fuzzy jingles snail themselves
to a brain leave . . . munch
in cute arcs tired riffs of t.v. swamp
 
mutts snore under finger tips
 
a rush of familiars
climb the spine like pegged legs
up stairs of termite feasts
 
a few fresh dreads introduce themselves
over handball in the belly
 
hands vibrate to memories
of trapped elevators like epileptic hummingbirds . . .
 
ah yes . . . epileptic hummingbirds . . .
 
rude insects clog the pores in sweat sewers
from graceless anxiety of mother and church
 
an old regular jams out record feats
of front brain solos
in heavy runs of wah-wah
 
hors d’oeuvres of rich paranoia
sink the bowels to churn
 
this is the age where
the two mushrooms merge
 
vision inside the atom bursting
like the cells of oranges crushed
 
persistent woes skate the eyeballs’
frozen fear, that’s the sound
 
of ice caving in . . .

(1974)

12/26/74

#AmericanWriters

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Beatriz Garcia
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