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In by Wyatt on July 25, 2010 at 12:28 pm

It’s like gold dust.

Those sounds abound in the air
in your ear
there and here, everywhere

floating
creating and making new philosophies
Criss-crossing me
grip rocking the
roots of inner tribulations triumphs and victories
memories of lake fallen leaf berating me
She waking he,
he  taking she,
they flaking free,
the Anthology.

Slapped back by the rhythm
and the beat’s still thick
slippery quick
sliding down a hill on an oil-ice slick
in an eighteen wheeler lodged way up shift
creek

But it keeps rolling, this barely breathing
seething mass of bricks
like tetris
sexy music
seducing your hearing.

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  1. wait I like this poem! i just wish it wasn’t an advertisement ha

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