Untitled, 072820131301 [draft For Gettysburg, Whitman]

Smell the breath of grass
First at their backs and bayonetted sides
Because this, the duty of the living:

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Untitled, draft, 07182013

I don’t give a shit
About the jungle
Or your long trek
To profitable madness

But all my questions
Turned to coin
As I sounded out that place’s strange name
Sweating, mosquito-thick, blood green

Impossible to itch
That place

I would recount this purple story
To my shrink if
I had a shrink, but
I really don’t give a shit.

Inkown [Draft, 070520131216]

Where will he go?

Half hemmed against
The water hand dancing through
Clouds in a ballet of stars
Night
Just night
Beneath the cold mountain

Where is he afraid to go?

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