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Andrew James Weatherhead


I feel an overwhelming
love for my voice
on a day like
today which is smooth

and deep like the
snow the cars keep
getting stuck in and
your response to my

question written on my
cell phone exploding with
light vibration and followed
by some quiet friendship



or I step through
you feeling like shit
and drag a banana
into the daytime no

limit to the amount
of coffee I can
drink my kitchen is
so small and so

are you I don’t
spend enough time inside
either light keeps failing
to do me justice



I wish I had
gloves to stop me
from telling the time
to protect me from

shit I had a
dream that’s what I
was afraid of I
wish distance wasn’t such

a bugaboo I wish
quicksand didn’t get such
a bad rap because
my bed is it



standing in the kitchen
I open the silver flask which
once contained a stadium-sized disaster
named a security guard
chasing me across the parkway

as I leap-frogged over
the fence disowning all my friends
in the process

running and not stopping until
I was on the private beach
of a juvenile fascination
drinking skunked corona



he is still alive
and catching a cold

I am wetting my beak
in the small harbors the snow makes

at the intersection
corner where I saw you
late one night

before I had kissed anything
and was stoned
beyond belief

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