eighty-six surf

good old gorbachev
taking it to the streets
racking up an endless series of light-in-the-glass
very few, very few
no patterns like these
think of space
think of our dirt ball
in space
cold and alone
half in the mother sun
no one looks up
the complex pheremone
shape of the face
distance of the eyes
and roll of circumstance
makes men to women
that under-pulse
beyond all of the car chases
and the steel
the sweet tastes of sand
in mother sun
thighs encircling
seem to stretch to the End
if they can hear us
then they know
we’re here

Andrew McKinnon stands up
no one else can

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