poetry Short Stories Uncategorized

shine is a sin

staring over the amish cornfield cemetery

my chrome not painted black

smoking my grandmother’s pipe

my thoughts wander

to his writing

degenerated lately

to bottom shelf bukowski suiteĀ bourbon and dirty bare feet

suddenly worried that i have offended god with my actions

then feel at ease

remembering i used a match

to start the fire

not an electric lighter

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