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Like Heathcliff on the Moor

He comes in the worst part of the night.

The moon has either set

or never risen.

There are no intelligent constellations


His Mother rips off her dress as

he slides fishlike from her V.

His Amniotic Sack.

The Caul of Good Fortune.

His eyes.

Dark and bright.

She names him Judas

because she likes the name.

When he is twenty-two he will

Win the War.

Across the hall someone else is born and

lives three minutes.

The air.

Filled with a high pitched keening.

Like Heathcliff on the moor.

First Published by Sacred Chickens

Speed Dating At The Kama Sutra Rest Home And Bar

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There’s A Room In The Back. It’s The One That Prints Jack. The One That’s Front Loaded. The One Sugar Coated. Take The Fork In The Road. Take Your Pain A La Mode. Take Your Cue From Your Gods. Get Wha


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