Stacked, Crunched, Smoked

Jelly Jars overturned
an old l-shaped writing crow’s desk.

Unsung Songs
of the street
depopulated by countless deaths of dreams
defanged by debts and bricks.

Stacked, Seen, and Delivered

to unknown destinations
postcards from trains
unpaid and planes not flown.

Where We All Go
at the end of a day
but only some can repeat in the ‘morn
and relive for love never born.

He Hates
to wake,
but loves to walk
under old oaks
crunching the unborn seeds
of hundreds more oaks
the mobile modern abortionist.

he hates To Smoke,
but flicks that end
still lit
and dreams of lives unlived
hundreds more hours
if he had the gift.

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