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4 POEMS Melissa Jones |
STILL DAYLIGHT Man, holding a knife stabbing the air killing invisibles drunk on Amazon herbal Old cutting board knife to his throat acting out threats killing cucumbers the night before all of this happened he was sober on air swatting flies a nomad his life whatever it may be: the corner baby denies breast a silent stench he walks away in sour milk: a mother never carried him through sun terminated and swift cuts around his inner light still aborted
__ YARD SALE Where: When: Far arson block with knives. great for back. to school. Clothes unbeatable an economic kettle spilled sunny side up the street sale: used fluid from your dialogue cell phone. dropped. listen. and pretend you like worn clothes that tell the story of his and hers sigh in BIG shoes that laugh at the rawness of friction.
__ WHAT A DOLLAR CAN'T BUY: The candies that you used to buy for a dollar went up to 2 dollars plus tax and now you’re left to steal which is something your mother told you not to do but you did it Anyways when you walk out the security will catch you at the door.
What a dollar can buy: Toothless is the innocent gum line of his smile enjoying sweets snot nose little brother Running and smells of hot urine staining the chocolate covered shelves of affordable treats not this one: He saves what he can buy to run off with many: his piss trail scent lingering
__ FALL The burnt- crisp ones attached to the sole, The shoe lace tied with a fiber of leaf green and the yellow bright on the brim of jeans blowing the oak kids toward pine wood-streets of metal and brass sweat air bodily breeze scattering the red-orange drops whenever the hands are stained: an attachment to white laundry
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