301 Moved Permanently

301 Moved Permanently


nginx

We start here:

We start here: onward & upward, as they say, up and at ‘dem: ascension to heaven: literal goodness, and: where we looked for it is where it weren’t: it was where we wasn’t, and: we weren’t where it were, but: he kissed me on the moustache: we kissed we: were it not there, I don’t know what: this upcoming he, now a different he: the way those New York guys talk, like we all know which Larry or Joe they’re talkin’ ‘bout over breakfast: Greg rolls by on his bike, in: an Arc of Triumph, over: the curb crumbling into gravel: a rhinestone from the Nudie jacket of some Cosmic Cowboy stomping on some battered  Holy Grail: b-b-bending that B, and: he, Greg, says: “I’d give you the shirt off my back,” and does: if we believed in a generation of mine’s best minds, he: the shirt ripped in that place where the pens go, so: an undershirt: a must: severe light pouring upon: we: this we, now a different we: close our eyes to become painters, and: young millionaires: make it reign: toppling chimneys, &: grey bells pealing in untoppled towers, &: TV’s blaring in anger, around: whipping leashes, &: flaming rad: we want more light, and: we conjure it, but: we imagine ourselves as our younger selfs: bearers of confession, on: pump-brake bikes, little brothers receiving Karate kicks on trampolines, &: G.I. Joe’s lost in the grass: eventually, Penguin Classics in back-pockets: these, universal, unlike: the he & we that, colloquially spoken of, are so familiar with, but: , then: deadly wolves of hurt feelings: oil changes: flooded fields of something yucky, and: we can barely hold on: hold on: hold on, but: , also: said smooched moustaches, &: reaching the top shelf, &: a taste for cilantro or wild honey, and: we imagine it as circular, like: the watch whose hands spin clockwise, but: age happens: future-is-him: the chair flips over, and: we cry: the daggers of the sun-starer, please: he shames me: the flame of wind-wristed thieves: the flame whose touch singes the frayed threads of my flannel cuffs: we shames me, and: never having written a love song, because: me love hate songs, like: but more unlike said TV: the splendor hatred of guitars, but: this the closest to: this here me, now a different me.

 

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