It’s not like running guns in 
Ethiopia, I know, 
sitting in the dark smoking 
sawdust cigarettes 
nursing a last warm beer 
as you toss yet another poem into the 
vacuum void of what you thought might be 
eternality & salvation but 
turns out to be just another 
day at the flea market
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
