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Black String of Days Tonight I feel the stars are out to use me for target practice. I don't know why they zero in like old business, each a moment of blood unraveling forgotten names. This world of dog-eat-dog & anything goes. On the black string of days there's an unlucky number undeniably ours. As the Milky Way spreads out its map of wounds, I feel like a snail on a salt lick. What can I say? Morning's crow poses on a few sticks, a cross dressed in Daddy's work shirthow its yellow eyes shine. It knows I believe in small things. I dig my fingers into wet dirt where each parachute seed pod matters. Some insect a fleck of fool's gold. I touch it, a man asking for help as only he knows how. 69 from Copacetic ...

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