these illiterate bombs of flesh
insist on pretending to read-
if you close your eyes
you can hear them exploding.
if they pressed their noses to the carpet
I'm sure they would find what they're looking for-
a cocaine truck on a bridge to their brain's.
New Year's Eve inside a library,
letting the wind chill me
through a shattered window-
a plated visual.
they came with intent, they came with purpose,
but they all flop down and start clicking and humming
and they feed off the strong avec vulture-like beaks.
I wake up on a grayish,
freckled carpet, hard staples
like clinging to my teeth cheek-
fluorescent sleep for a week.
I saw some Asians surfing on a database,
Indians fire-watching on a calculator-
why do they insist on being cannibals?
If I let my sleep fall under a four-legged table,
I'm sure they'd all scramble like eggs just to wallow.
With wool socks, I could chase these vultures
and catch them in my broken, shattered teeth-
what a literary, (explative) feast!
will they have fresh coffee?
stale doughnuts and tea?
If I sleep in too late
you'll be sorry for free
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