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I'm a nobody from nowhere

born to be forgotten. Lost

with 500-acre armies

deep into an autumn night.

Buried twice,

in soil and time,

like all great men. Haunted

by the desperate murmurs

of my obituary tumbling

across barren fields.

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Pure Silence

Pure silence is an abandoned theater, echoing with the screams of a grindhouse film nobody remembers.

Illusion of Progress

After Larry Levis’s “Airplanes” I grab a torch and go burn hay bales to a pile, and stare at the glowing remains until cloves grow from the ashes. This never happens. I turn twenty-seven somewhere, kn

Why the Wildflowers Bloom

Across the drought-dried field, vultures perched on hay bales, wings twitching with anticipation as a road-trapped body took its last breath. The wake was swift. Muscles to guts, a legacy was devoured

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