You ain't red
You ain't got

Grind word
Into spatula
As that plastic 
Melts and pans
Short line railroad
Monopolized the smell

And academe hung
Its own portraits
On the walls of transparent 

Don't make a work
Into the Word
If you're not ready
To stand by 
And wait to be
Rolled out of your cave

Godliness and complexes
Take those imaginaries
And write future
Because past won't say
And present
Ain't no gift

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