the bleeding horse

who is everyone
and no one

who knew pollock
and picasso

who died in ’56
and again in ’63 and
again in the summer of ’97

who lives

stumbles blindly down
all of the empty streets i’ve
ever lived on

crawls crippled through
broken glass alleys

through november fields
in upstate new york with a
crucifix carved into his
soft belly and his
eyes gouged out

who is pain and
the lack of hope in
a sunlit world

things that matter
whether you
talk about them or not


the burning girl

says she loves you
as she’s dragged through

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