Wednesday, November 21, 2007

46/1,000,000

we move with destroyers
and wrong throat singers
whelmed by the turnstiles
of sick kids. on th’rise are
the songs. but they can’t
come out. they gargle up
on th’back of our tongues.
it is there where they stay.
we are forced to sing with
our hands but th’sick kids,
hate it. it makes ‘em sicker.
so we continue to move.

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