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Michael Clark Lorenzo


We run through
quiet blue jungles
swapping kisses,
wed spiders
affixed to the curious notion
that this addiction
we cater
like picnics on the sun
could someday
come even close
to resembling
We swing on fast vines
through the monkey school
scractching our
respectives asses
as if we might pluck
a hair of truth
from these dull black holes
in the fabric of our logic.
Banana ripe
daydreams ripening
in the warm night air;
we climb to the tippy-top
of tallest trees
crying out broken lullabies
to sanctify
this rainless forest.

Submitted: Monday, July 07, 2008
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