August 13

All the good ideas of the world
swirl in this factory atop my noggin.

Call it an assembly line, a library,
a precipice over which showers

great floods of electricity,
watt hours of images

teeming ions of life. And yet,
I am robbed of much it

by someone’s drawing
or by someone’s murmur

their pinked view of the world
every mediocre lustful thing.

All the good ideas reside here, hid
in the hum and buzz and static.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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