Friday, May 6, 2011

poem || Keith Higginbotham

from The Unemployed

like chitchat in attracts. Red
skies. three–doesn’t matter: even
development. How many were cut from synonymous

window. Paint on the same cloth philosopher.
Officials stopped touched the bloated The rib cage by admitting violence
brain, send crisp winged more talk; and as witness it. . .
Factories dirty joke their towing

each day’s on its back.
of awesomeness. Our long hard stare steep path to

The news scrawls who’ve gotten old.
repeating a nothing happens here. ended. their saviors
tapping out syllables resemble dust.
Well, the names
of anything to think and no one of heaven. knew more
than the average it made them underwater.

which one
We were immune reception, begged us be. I grew of mending.
The didn’t need to. but you dwarfed
where slow mud
to harness our started in the from shore.
the attic, pink stomach like
The shutters were danger. Let’s
hurry back to agents of the buildings blear to
as if a gigantic key.

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