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Usually untucked
(and never folded or put away)
I sit threadbare, all loose ends
a man not made from something less,
but decomposed and frayed
from something greater
demoralized and amoral
amoralized and demoral
sitting drinking losing
like the unrecovered pieces
of some great collection.
Jewish gold in Swiss banks
shooting gladly,
nothing but blanks
as they roll, damned German tanks
I’m falling apart
I’m falling into the wrong hands
I’m falling forever falling
life outside is calling
but I am crawling
over my own corpse to get to the
scraps and swatches and fragments
of what’s left.
What haven’t they taken?
I’m falling or crawling or something
in between, living downhill
trying to piece together what I mean
trying to patch together words
to hide the slashes on my wrists.

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