Just as it all gets worse
when it really couldn’t
I turn to my clove cigs
and my legs go out from under
head goes on spin cycle
sandpaper smoke down my throat.
Nausea is better than
the alternative I am forced
to confront, when all my
middle fingers go unseen
and my outrage screams
at deaf ears. I disappear
into the exhaled smoke
become a ghost in fog
an owl in a snowstorm.
Storm's a Comin
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