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FECKLESS WITH DISGUST

 All erasure of pain
is like the contrary of
dust that weighs
dark in my lungs
when I am 
feckless with disgust.
I stroke & poke my loins before they tighten.
My feet stomp fields of color reminding me of something I once knew.
Dying frees the spirit from the mind.
We plod along regardless of the pain.
Soon we grow big & fat.
We stop forgetting, far off from whatever binds us mindlessly to empty space.
Beginning here we reignite desire.
We will surrender what is far from us & call it love.

by Jerome Rothenberg
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