Pyroclastic Flow Poem by James McLain
Pyroclastic Flow
Like the sun I rise and exercise.
Meditation comes from some far away juicy jucie.
Enemas.
The rusty warm brown bottle.
My grandmother had.
At leisure strown about rubber gloves.
Before I begin the massage.
I must think about the mess from the day before.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Topic(s) of this poem: grandmother,meditation
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8/28/2026 3:44:01 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
