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machaca #24, 1976.

i sit in a red-green brick house, having now
burned my asshole bright with scorned chili peppers,
staring into the last bit of beer meant to cool my palate.
i think to myself that this isn't right, the sound or the smell,
the way the icy temperature of the glass warms far too quickly
for me to enjoy it - i think it all to myself, but the man at the back
with a hat made of ashy stories looks up and walks over as if
in response.
he walks past me without so much as a glance and i see the
browbeaten canyons of his aged face and think to myself that
it isn't right how he pays for his meal and says nothing to the
cute blond behind the counter, so i get up and pay for mine,
a little extra on the side for her troubles.
she thanks me, but in my haste to leave the warming beer
behind and set it all alright, i only hear the gentle closing of the
door and the pick-up howling of the wind as the man disappears
into the dark of the night and i think to myself that it isn't right,
even as i watch the red-green bricks fade into a blur and then

4 Dec 17

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